Never Forget
by KKSunny
Summary: Six years have passed and the island still haunts him. Everyone is a reminder. Can Jack Merridew overcome his past and forgive himself? Eventually becomes JackxRalph
1. 1954

_Six years have passed and the island still haunts him. Everyone is a reminder. Can Jack Merridew overcome his past and forgive himself? Eventually becomes JackxRalph_

A bit of a cheesy summary but it'll have to for now. Anyway.

Welcome to a story I finally agreed with. Anything prior ended up scrapped so with this, bear with me.

Yes this story involves slash. Turn back now if you so choose but let me just say that it's not my main priority to this fic.

I began writing this about a year ago and made several edits since. I hope you can at least get some enjoyment out of it.

**Pairing: **Jack Merridew/Ralph

**Genre:** Realistic fiction, Drama, Romance-ish. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.

**POV:** Jack Merridew (third-person)

**Disclaimer:** Everything and anyone belongs to William Golding, save for my OCs

By all means, do enjoy reading. :)

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><p>.<p>

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It was when the crying had stopped that the tangled mess of former, tidier British schoolboys truly left the island behind them. It was ancient history and soon to be forgotten. At least the majority of them hoped. Some littluns had already shut their eyes and began to dream of home, letting the future catch up to them as if it never left. It is remarkable how quickly youth forgets, even when a traumatizing event manifested to enslave the mind. Are they still innocent, after every boy believed they had lost their childhood? Had they not been permanently bruised? Perhaps not all of them. Perhaps that was an illusion; those boys who claim to have already let the past remain upon the desolate, ever-burning island. The island that casted flames held countless downfalls and as it sat there, clinging to every branch it scorched and melted, the flames flitted, wavered, back and forth in such mockery, a tease bidding them _adieu _-the white flag - at the same time predicting this won't be the last time they'll see this power, this flame that took what was once the beauty and dawn of childhood, of boyhood, of innocence.

For some, it was the best experience of their life and they could set the memories aside into a small book, never to be published, never to be read, never to be remembered. It would sit there for the sole purpose to collect dust. No one should have to read such a horrible story. May as well call it a myth. Others, however; the other, much older boys who had the brain and the knowledge to never forget, were the ones to lie awake at night only to be escorted through hell and back, reciting what had happened, what deaths occurred, what breaks of what used to be such a promising friendship… They would never be able to fill in the hole the island carved into their heads, eyes, hands, those sticks pointed at both ends.

What had happened on the island now sitting in inferno was a series of disagreements: the want for rescue, and the want for fun. Civilization and chaos. Every side has a lead, and for each side of the argument holds one host. One who thought he was doing the right thing all along, while the other, who opposed him, said that every boy with English blood on this island should be celebrating his days of freedom, without that watchful and strict eye of an adult. He said have fun, eat freshly hunted meat; let there be piss and vinegar. On the island, this boy whose views on the world he established himself, indeed a direct one, required a dormancy of saviours. All those who said nay had been prematurely cut-short as a punishment and lesson for those who were to think similarly as the opposition. It was never like that at first: it was never intended to twist to such a violent level. But when it had reached its peak: everything lost all control. People were dying, targeted, malevolently chased. However, their stance was innocent, those who opposed the tyrant who promised happiness, entertainment, and food. Moreover, this tyrant had a name that could manifest as taboo if anyone were to care to remember him. He who detached away from his fellow hunters that didn't seem too 'fellow' any more; he immediately continued to break down in his room, or cabin upon a ship that rocked spitefully for him, back and forth, another mockery set to his demise.

Jack Merridew.

A tyrant who suppurates at his failure. Does he doubt his power now? How can he not? He led a bunch of boys whose voices of angels transformed into blood-curdling screams of murder. Teaching these kids the way of a hunter had been like raising a child: a delicate process that can never reset. Merridew raised them to be beasts, to be animals, to embrace their savage side. However, he wasn't even aware of it himself. Therefore, he sits underneath his mate's bunk upon a cramped and rusting metal-frame, a mattress that was below passing. Flat and stiff like a hardback book. The middle and corners were stained in indecipherable marks. Merridew had too many worries to digest. The bed creaked at every move he made: a wake of melancholy.

He had his elbows propped upon the tops of knees, letting two eyes nestle uncomfortably in a pillow of palm. Tears gushed through the corners of his eyes, a puddle in the depression of each palm, overflowing and spilling, descending his forearm without any mind. Each puddle in his hands played with his eyelashes, stinging his thinned skin.

This narrow room crawled with darkness: night had arrived once again. The moon was up, waning; shined through the only minuscule rotund window. The thick glass aligned with multiple layers, rejecting outside waters from entering like an unwanted guest who would overstay their welcome that was never truly welcomed. The lunar lighting easily bathed the entire room in a bright grey tinge that emphasised looming dust. Just another element to drop Merridew down a few more rungs.

He wasn't alone. From Merridew's position, numbly could he hear the very dull breathing of children who were not too much younger than he. They breathed in almost soundlessly, and exhaled smoothly with a soft gentle noise any mother considered the sound of angels sleeping. But were these children really angels like what they had been prior the island, Jack thought to himself, if he were really paying that much attention to those dreaming kids? However, the orchestra of inhales and exhales reminded Jack that he was tired, too. His tears were already drying, leaving a sad and very thin filament of salt and water. Merridew rubbed it off with the heel of his half-dried hand. He gave up shortly after, but the thought of it, those morose tear stains upon his skin, he knew, it would be a reminder when he'd have to wake again.

In a slow unsteady manner, the boy stood from his bunk, hearing a soft puff right at his feet. His startled and dry gaze snapped behind him, and only for a second had he been fooled believing the item was actually a creature. However, it was a towel he had showered across his shoulders and back. He found it somewhere within the ship. It wasn't anything important: so the boy took it as an odd comfort.

Now he stared at it like it was a monster: a wrinkled and fuzzy white mass that stayed motionless upon the cold of the floor. Merridew broke his attention away, walking out of the room into the narrow corridor of the ship. Here connected all the rooms to some of the other boys resting within. Only then did Merridew feel truly isolated, and didn't even know why. In bare feet, he searched for a washroom.

He travelled blindly through the ship's corridor, opening and closing doors, hoping he could find the right one eventually. He had already swung one open, quickly scanning through until he felt safe, and entered the vacant cramped cube.

Near the toilet smelled of something sickeningly undecipherable. Merridew ignored it instantaneously when a figure shifted within the room. Instinctively, he twirled round on fast heels, ready to pounce, with arms flung high and bent defensively. His eyes darted to where he last saw movement. Nothing. Like what any hunter shouldn't do, Merridew relaxed his guard. This room was too small anyway, he consoled to himself.

When returning toward the sink, the creature did the same. Jack snapped to it, ready to kill, but then, staring back at him was a human face. It sent daggers of fear down Merridew's spine and numbed his toes and fingers. His ears could no longer hear and blood pressed against the back of his eyeballs, dimming his vision into grey. He didn't dare blink, he couldn't look away and neither could the brokenness of the creature: their eyes were sealed.

Merridew desperately groped for his pocketknife hanging upon the remains of his corroded shorts. A furrow of concern between his russet brows and he glanced down at his hip: Missing. A memory panged throughout his head: the officers had confiscated it. Merridew hadn't felt so exposed in all his life. He felt defenceless and utterly useless. No knife: the key item that had kept him living so long as he had. The item that kept everyone he knew living. The boy gritted his teeth spitefully.

He snapped his attention back upon the beast who returned just the same. Jack knitted his brows together, confused, as did the beast. What was this thing? Why did it keep following his every move? Was it his shadow, or was it another mockery? A beast doesn't mock his victim…

Merridew, out of sheer bravery that surprised even him, drifted his dirtied hand up to the creature's solemn face that mimicked. They connected. The boy flinched off from blatant and bitter coldness against the creature's own grimy hand. His eyes morphed into that familiar mix of fear and malevolence as they darted back up to the creature. It too stared at him in the same way, holding onto their wrist as if it had burned. Confused, Jack stood straight and approached again curiously. The thing did the same. Jack came up and made contact with it again. It frowned as Jack frowned. It stared as Jack stared. Familiar freckles mapped out in its skin, blue eyes that stared sharply and coldly in return. A great mop of dirtied red hair, reached down enough to tickle his shoulders. His skin so dark, it was unfamiliar. It wasn't really a beast, he realised. It couldn't possibly be.

It was him.

A mirror.

The tears began to well up again. He wept without control. He forced his hands heavily upon the rim of the imperfect sink, allowing his tears to plummet from the tip of his tall nose and land into the bowl below.

It didn't take him long to get fed up with his own crying: he suddenly turned the tap and let the water rush from the pipe. The white noise of water engulfed the secluded room, filling his ears and distracting him: he was glad for once. He ran his hand beneath the heart-stopping iciness, his other hand following close behind. Already numbness settled. He bent closer and promptly shoved a crash of icicles onto his face. Burning, then cold. His tears were dead for sure. Merridew wiped himself dry with the towel that sat behind him.

When he had finished, the redhead stepped out into the empty corridor. Once again, Merridew felt completely alone. Retracing his steps and returning to his room, Merridew tossed his body onto his creaking mattress which creaked what seemed like its loudest and stirred at least one of his roommates in their slumber.

It was completely miserable on this thing. How did the others sleep as easily they do? Maybe they had comfortable beds?

The boy shut his eyes in spite and attempted sleep. As soon as his eyes closed and was about to nod off into a light sleep, memories manifested in front of his shut lids.

...

An artificial gust blew against their morose, tear-stained faces, forcing a shiver, the air slightly warm but thick. All the children, including Merridew, climbed down the narrow stairwell of their rescue ship silently as if being tested: no sign of fun or glee, taken away from a world filled with chaos to a ship of sophistication. Almost everyone kept their eyes downcast as feet followed other feet, forming a train of boys; stepping into a thin, metal passageway. No one dared to break the chain and flounder under a surge of eyes that longed for a distraction. No one wanted to be that fool. Even the adults around the small of the deck kept quiet for the embarrassment of the situation. Their duty was to keep every one of them within their silenced line until they reached the vacancy of the second floor hallway filled with nothing but stagnant air. Empty walls painted simply by a sick shade of yellow that when peeled, the true colours of the concrete exhibited, like a skin diseased old man.

The lot of children clumped together tightly, and all as if one boy, they looked up shyly (or was it shamefully?) and saw a man in white, sailor suit and all standing erect within the centre of the besmirched hallway. They stared, the premature and disgraceful hunters, at the amazing uniformity that was this man. He brought such an aura of cleanliness, authority, honorability, awe, and power. Although all he did was stand on his own two legs, and did nothing more or nothing less, he appeared like a God staring down at these children who gazed back as if they were petty ants. No one dared move. The man stood with a hardened face and paused for what felt like a millennium. Too thick for speech. Out of expectations from boys who remembered to see elders as someone to respect, however; the man had to say something broad and commanding. He examined the lot one last time, pushing the limits as if he truly didn't want to cut the gnawing silence. No one moved. The air was still. Not even the other workers behind the children roused. Everyone was waiting on the commander, that naval officer. His hairy upper lip twitched.

"Uh," Is all he uttered to begin, and only then did everyone's eyes flicker and the officer found himself deeper into awkwardness as everything clicked onto him. His posture prohibited him to reflect on this feeling.

"Hullo… to you all." He sounded strikingly familiar with his unsteady, thorny speech. There was another pause – shorter this time. The officer examined the lot of dirtied boys again, a little perplexed by their appearances compared to him. He seemed to need an excuse to keep the silence. The man continued anyway, out of duty.

"You all will be riding on this ship," The man announced, which perked up his audience once more. "And we've got spare rooms, however there are few."

Another short pause. He kept examining every eye that gazed back at him with a dry look, somehow displeased, disgusted.

"As you might have already predicted, we have decided that the matter should be taken to a division of as few kids in these spare rooms as possible. Since most of the ship is occupied by our sailors, we've got limited room."

All of his words were concise and well planned, as if he had said them on several separate accounts. The officer took another pause to make a headcount. Once his idea pulled through, he stomped his foot once somewhat triumphantly, to regain the attention that never really left.

"All right. We've only two rooms available as of now, and there are fifteen of you. That means the majority will have to fill the only room we have that's left, and that being the mess deck; whereas only eight kids may fill those two spares. The rest may be placed into the mess deck, whereas those of whom will be taken to by my men. Without further ado: who says they are the oldest here?"

There was no response at first: a few kids rustling about, avoiding to make a sound, trying to concentrate a mute atmosphere. Then, about two long and vexing minutes later in response; one brave, long-haired boy shuffled slowly out from the grimy crowd that remained stilled even when he tried breaking through. The boy did not dare make a sound as his eyes remained glued to concrete floor, reaching the front of the crowd, presenting himself shyly. He peeked up modestly with a shy tone to his countenance.

"I-I am… sir."

Shortly after, another kid poked through the crowd, sort of shoving his way to the stage and he prodded out, not exactly proud, but trying to act as if he knew what he was doing. No one stared at him for long. The boy stood crookedly with empty hands and grotesque paints smeared across his otherwise naked skin, his head covered in thick, lengthy crimson hair beneath an undistinguishable black cap. A yard thither from the other eldest child, dared not to make any form of contact with him.

"All right then," said the officer when all was set and done and pointed his grey hair-filled nose up toward the ceiling as if dismissing the children. "Allow my men to escort you to your rooms by age, then."

The man scanned for his 'men' and when each of them came in eye-contact with the officer, they immediately sprang into action and began pointing the kids all in one direction past the officer. All this in silence.

Politely, the men escorted the majority of boys out of the narrow passageway into other hallways passed closed, iron doors. They left the eight remaining boys with sailors and the naval officer who, as soon as all arranged itself, left without a trace back into his world of usual work. The remaining few sailors shepherded the small mass of stained children into the dyads of rooms. All seemed swell and according to plan: kids from age eleven and lower all climbed into the mess deck respectively, where the floor was their bed. Meanwhile, kids eleven and older stacked into what rooms were available to them. Everything seemed fine except for one child…

"I'm not bunking with that beast!"

The boy from earlier shrieked from within one of the two cabins filled with boys. He battered frantically against the entrance door like an eagle stuck within a cage.

"He's going to kill me, I know it!"

Three sailors suddenly appeared, bursting the rounded door open and immediately stole the restless figure by the arms, off the ground, and everyone within proximity stared in astonishment and wonder as the boy wriggled round in a violent tantrum, kicking at the air and thrashing his arms. No one could peel his piercing, wide-eyed stare from the target in front of him. The target was another boy standing slump-back, as if they had an engagement together with beatings and fights. He stared malevolently at the other who played immaturely.

"He's going to kill me!"

The boy repeated, thrashing uncontrollably.

"Let me go!"

The sailors did not give, but did not move with only little knowledge. They kept their hold on the frantic and hysterical boy as he flung his limbs within their grasp. The boy was decently strong, but still no match.

"What on Earth is going on here?"

The room stopped. All eyes followed the call. It was the commander of the ship. He looked too serious. No one breathed.

"Must I repeat myself?"

There was no answer. Only one glare that wasn't meant for him. They shared a brief moment in a one-sided, silent battle of eyes until the man broke off and examined everyone's evading eyes. The boy with fair hair didn't dare move a muscle.

"Hm?"

The man piped up again in a sedated manner, trying to squeeze an answer out, mainly to the captive boy.

"I refuse to bunk with him."

The boy muttered after a brief pause and immediately, the authority glanced over at the child in question with red hair whose eyes hesitated to stare back. The man's upper lip twitched.

"All right then, fair enough."

He said in a final, brash tone.

"Send him off to the next room. Shouldn't be a problem. Come on, then. Go ahead."

At the command, the sailors had paused in cowardice, finally releasing the boy with long, fair hair. He did not attack at the red head like expected: instead turning around like the proper British boy he was and followed the sailors as they clambered down the hallway, out of sight.

"Will that be all for tonight?"

The authority quizzed at the room before him, not expecting an answer. And there wasn't: he walked off without a word with his fists cupped in each other behind him, accepting the reticence. Everyone's stares depleted as soon as the man left the doorway; they returned to a downcast like usual. The red head went crestfallen.

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><p><strong>AN:** And that was chapter one. I sincerely hoped you enjoyed it. Reviews are always welcome. :)


	2. Early Restitution

Merridew jolted from sleep and smashed his crown into the overhead bunk. The redhead winced behind a clenched jaw and fell back down, holding his head until his ears stopped ringing: he paused to listen and caught sight of small naked feet scuffling along to a piercing, elongated wailing. It flooded his ears. He propped himself up on his elbow, holding his head, pushing it away from the above bunk and scowling at the feet before him. _What the bloody..__._

"Nearing land! All passengers must meet at the main deck!"

A pause of confusion. The hiatus of thought progress. Blinking eyes and scanning others' for knowledge. They petered out of the room, meeting mutual confusion spilling through other doors into the corridor. Merridew quickly caught on and joined the commotion, sweeping into the crowd of his peers he formerly knew well and followed their stream toward the far end of the hall, where they had first stumbled into the day of rescue. All the boys hurried in some ecstasy to know, blindly colliding into Jack, their attention too fixed elsewhere. It was all just curiosity...

Kids flooded the too-narrow metallic stairwell, muscling through like they were strangers again. Once they reached the top, chaos reached the iron door. A few young and anxious boys, needy and desperate, flung open the obstruction, a blast of cold, raspy air crashed into their faces like a needless punishment. They faltered and tripped until everyone lined out one-by-one in a fortuitously uniform manner. Charting through composed, they found the main platform, and gradually, the air of awareness diminished.

Jack Merridew followed through the end of the dynamic crowd. Something caught his eye, however; between all the dirtied boys, a boy stood underneath too long black hair. _Roger._ A bent child, a bully; Jack's closest hunter. His skin was dark from over exposure and didn't seem too interested in where he was going.

Glancing off, Merridew met the anonymous shoulder of another. He peeked up dirtied and bruised skin until he met a shock of familiar fair hair. His eyes gaped in quieted vain as he noticed the boy weaken in the crowd of children who had once artificially goaled to destroy him. The boy lurched and lacked behind, struggling, as if he didn't want to be impeded. His steps were rushed as if he knew everyone was staring him down: his head craned stiflingly upward, peeking out over the heads that he easily towered, desperately seeking a passage between the bodies. All this in front of Merridew who watched carefully behind a stone face.

The observer thought the observed as ridiculous: he was tempted to grab the boy by his arm and bark that in his face, but decided against it – not when adults were around. He wasn't on the island any more.

Merridew, giving in to temptation, rampantly stepped toward the boy, reaching out until he couldn't. Another body intervened and with a painfully skipping heart, he peeked up and saw a boy much shorter from the rest. Only a boy…

Silence.

Merridew broke from his trance.

A man – the same man from the first day with the hairy upper lip – stood erect, high above everyone's heads, looking sternly out at the hushed distance, although intimately as if the land in sight was his wife. He waited until all eyes were on him. The thick crowd of boys, drained of etiquette, had no more understandings to such regulations.

In a loud and authoritative voice, the commandant rang out in a small burst of speech, searching for attention. Immediately everyone snapped their widened eyes at him, as if they just noticed his presence. Fear obscured their pre-pubescent faces as they swayed about on their feet, not wanting to touch the boy next to him.

The commandant began strongly

"Now that I have your attention, I would like to begin this gathering to inform you that land has been sighted: our land as we all know, love, and respect; as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

Every boy perked at the auspice.

"We've contacted with our base and they connected with your families that were available. Again, we thank you for your time spent on our surveys back in the beginning: 'Twas of great help with much benefit to you all."

The deck flooded in sudden cheers of crazed screams and yells, arms flinging toward the greying sky overhead. Even Merridew smiled a little with a nose pointed at the metal floor.

"As you might have predicted, they will be all waiting for your arrival upon shore. That will be all. Carry on."

Before the officer aborted the deck, the boys already began to scatter round the ship like a ton of released balloons. They were happy, excited, and best of all, lusty for the shore. The faces they yearned to see were their parents. The boy's around were tiresome to look at. Merridew wasn't tired of any of it. He wasn't even excited. The thought of seeing his parents for the first time in a long time would be hell right on the shore. He would get off the boat and acknowledge his family knowing of what he had done on the island. They'd be disappointed. Merridew would be disappointed. He wanted to play a little bit longer, even if nobody wanted to talk to him, like someone waiting for an answer on the end of a dead phone call.

...

Jack Merridew stood at the peak of the main deck, lightly grasping the handrail of the ship. The clouds began to collect and sop. The patter of rain felt soft against his skin, yet Merridew gave it no mind: civilization was looming. Forlornly, he expected a great frown from his father and mother, imagining them waiting for him at the shore, readying a contempt speech for him. Merridew frowned rancorously at the image as his long, strawberry-red hair whipped in the heavily lapping breeze and the gradual dip in the ship that rose up high, then crashing back down onto the hard surface of the water. The roar flooded his ears and he finally felt distracted for the first time.

The blinding sun sheltered behind grey clouds ready to cry harder; peeking sometimes over the storm and drowning certain spots with light. Merridew blinked his attention back to the shore, then to the handrail he gripped coldly. His eyes screwed narrow in slight disgust, knowing what these hands went through. Twitching, Merridew departed his bothered gaze across the metal pole to the right where the sky far off into the distance gloomed and swirled beside another boy of similar youth. It must be that hunter named Maurice. Or perhaps... The boy's hair was not brown: it was several shades lighter, like ribbons from the sun. His tall, broad figure was facing out at sea, opposite of Merridew. His outline lacked muscle or fat, smoothing and glistening with rain, his body tense like a frightened puppy. Jack's blue stare couldn't rip away. He pilfered through immediate names to label this child. He stopped. Everything went blank; slipped out his ears: he couldn't recognize that boy. The fair hair and almost skeletal figure was of familiarity: Merridew knew this child. The name pinched the tip of his parched tongue. This puzzle was so stupid! _He knew this child!_

Bombarded by vexing thoughts, eyes finally caught his. They reflected ice underneath heavy tanned brows. Their piercing glare shook Merridew out of his stupor and their eyes connected painfully until the opposite horizon seduced him. His yellow teeth bit into his lips and he searched for any diversion. The rain pelted harder. The wind blew harsher. The clouds had consumed the sun. The waves raced for the nearing of the shore...

...

Footsteps clambered everywhere. Bodies clumped where they needed to be. Ropes assembled in respective places. Shouts filled the air. Giddy screams from children reverberated like sirens. The shore closed in. Everything slowed down… Then came to a complete stop and creaked in its pool and bells began to fire along the piercing shrieks and curdling yells. Secure ropes tied the ship down, leaving it to bob as water licked at the coral coat of the belly. Everyone began parading out the naval ship. Their childish bare feet stomped and rattled the gangplank until the concrete of stable land got a taste of it too. They were finally home.

Merridew was the last to step off the ship, as a blur of shadow bumped his shoulder, reaching the last footfall. Glancing up, it was Roger putting space between them, walking off steadily, not bothering to look back and apologise. Jack shared the feeling and kept walking as if it never happened.

Suddenly, mature bodies filled his vision: clustered into separate groups, each hugging a dirty child as if they just found them after the longest time. Every face filled with tears of joy and unkempt smiles stretched from ear to ear. None appeared familiar to Merridew. He couldn't help the fear plaguing his mind. His turn was next to see a parent. His eyes never began to search; they wandered instead until they met with that same head of fair hair that fell down to his strong shoulders and flitted harshly in the wind. The boy's back met Merridew yet again but surrounded by an enormous woman whose face obscured by fat tears coated in black blotchy stuff. Her dirty blonde hair was untamed in the blustery winds, sending almost every individual strand into a shock.

An awkward elderly couple surrounded the woman and child. Jack judged them old enough to be the fair boy's grandparents. They held finely crafted walking staffs that dug into the concrete or sat in uncomfortable metal wheelchairs that creaked noisily whenever they moved. They were waiting patiently for the woman's episode to finally end, like a blocked up queue. Tears welled up in their eyes with faces as hard and unreadable as stone. Their dignities too important, even if a child they hadn't seen in months stood before them, being snapped in half by what was probably his mother.

All other families mimicked the action, weeping and crowding round a small boy who was in desperate need of a bathe. Every family had three or four members including the kid. It was far too repetitive and boring: Jack's eyes nonchalantly drew back onto the fair boy's family as if they were a magnet. Once he returned, however, the woman was crushing the boy's hand instead of his spine while she took a handkerchief to blot her red and bloated eyes. The fair boy, asphyxiated by multiple embraces, tangled below sopping, wrinkled faces that curled up into a morose frown that almost mocked a grotesque smile. It was kind of sick to look at. Merridew instead examined the top of the boy's head floating above a million arms. Was he mourning or standing there; taking the embraces as they flew by him, unemotional and callous? Merridew wondered whether the other boy enjoyed seeing his family again. He couldn't detect the grimy arms of the boy. Did he not know how to hug, or did he forget?

The rain began to pound harder into the ground and Merridew's family had yet to arrive. Mostly everyone vacated except for Roger and the fair boy and maybe a few other littluns. Despite the rain, no one who hadn't left wanted to leave. Perhaps there was an unspoken connection remaining; they didn't want to leave their classmate and hunter just yet? Processing the thought, Jack didn't feel as lonely when water drenched his half naked body. He stood without shoes and bluing fingers and toes. His body did not tremble or jitter: he felt too numb. The rain couldn't touch him. He was alone with sober eyes that absorbed that boy. Merridew knew that boy. His name was right in front of Jack's eyes. But there was nothing: just a void of brown and grey. The redhead blinked slowly, inebriated, and noticed that his person of interest had left without warning. Out of some anxious and yet foolish attempt, Merridew let his eyes scan the area. Where did that boy go?

Merridew let an air of relief cut through his throat and past his dry and parted lips as his thankful stare met once again the boy with fair hair. He stood a safe distance away, he thought, and watched the child stand by a dark vehicle drenched in rain. Everyone rushed in, escaping the storm. Everyone except that boy as a hurried hand gloved in pearl white steadily pushed him into the car, joining the rest. The boy took a pause, a moment of consideration, and studiously turned in Jack's direction with fluttering, anxious eyes. The child's lids swept up from the ground, eyes to the hood of the car, then finally, slowly meeting blue that stared numbly in return. It wasn't until those eyes disappeared when Merridew realised what just happened. His heart swelled with disgust and reverence. His name was right off the top of his tongue!

Finally, though, a car pulled up through the lot and stopped with a jolt almost too close to the ginger's feet. The clamour of pointed shoes surrounded and turned everything dark. His murky skin dirtied the carefully designed fabrics which were warm as they swallowed him whole. Voices drowned him at every angle, but not a word sounded English. All blabber except two familiar words:

"Jack Merridew!"

A voice as feminine and pretty as his mother's, and a voice as stern yet soft as his father's...

Jack Merridew found himself thrown into a car whose dusty scent immediately filled his nostrils, while the leather ran smooth and frosty in the back seats where bodies sandwiched either side of him. The entire car enveloped in noise of giddy speech and the wrinkling of clothes. Everybody's attention fixed here, there and everywhere: on the rain, getting the keys into the ignition, and Jack. They smiled at the lad and crushed his spine, like that fair boy. And they said against his skin, cries of blubbering awe for his return. Jack couldn't compute. A smile couldn't reach his lips and cry with his mother - or whoever this person was. He couldn't wrap his arms round her in return. He forgot how to hug. He forgot how to show affection. He forgot how to smile. He forgot who these people were.


	3. 1960

**Mild swearing, but I'm sure you can handle it. :)**

**And by the way, here's a hint: Jack isn't 12.**

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><p>Jack Merridew's eyes snapped open. Sweat beaded his forehead. Red hair plastered his skin. Everything was uncomfortable. He felt cold. He had to piss. His eyes blinked in agony, finally realising the pounding in his head as he slowly sat up, holding his temples. As soon as he forced his eyes open, he immediately met a mop of coarse blonde hair sitting atop his lap. He was displeased with the thought of having to touch it.<p>

Jack's attention was a short one: his eyes drifted elsewhere, peering up and round: everything was unfamiliar. Or was it? The close, bowing arcs of a grey, fluffy ceiling. The fractured plastic window sitting directly across from him. Other windows surrounded austerely but all in one piece. Overall, they counted up to four as far as he could gather. Jack bit his bottom lip. _Don't think._ His head pounded…

Seats. Lots of exploding seats: rips replaced with sordid fluff, poorly designed fabrics corroded or buffed until hideously thin. Everything was grey, the fabrics of the seats tried to excel away from that theme. It never worked, Jack judged through weary eyes that scanned the area. Where on Earth was he? What is this grotesque thing on his lap? He didn't like it there. It felt like a pile of hay… But since when did piles of hay have body's jutting out of them? Breathing. Oh wait, something wasn't right about this picture. The body huffed in air, perhaps not at all. It appeared almost dead, albatross and all. No clothes besides the socks on their feet. Who was this?

Jack peeked round once more, ignoring everything. Beyond the forest of inadequately crafted seats, he noticed a sort of desk. Black and curved in the most peculiar way with things protruding out of it and all. From circles to rectangles… _Ouch, please don't think._ Jack covered his eyes with the whole of his hand and winced. The throbbing was stubborn.

Mirrors. They were rotund and bizarre, not like any other. They surrounded that black, curvaceous desk at three separate angles. Top, east, west. Jack's temples were about to burst. _Don't think_. Above the desk sat an even larger window: larger than the four others. Beyond it was a blurry bright mass: the sun had to be out by now. The hand that covered his eyes lifted, exposing his pupils to piercing white. He blinked harshly, but when he came to, his nostrils flooded with a horrid stench. Jack's nose accidently sniffed the air again; he was feeling faint already.

His shirt was missing. Why? His skin looked too pale, almost sickly. There, all across his naval: the source of the foul odour. It was an ashen shade of brown with chunks motionlessly sliding down his sides as if frozen in place. Jack didn't like that either. He still had to piss. But this dead-weight hay stack was on his lap. Scowling didn't make his brain hurt any less. In some sort of desperation, he carefully pressed the heel of his palm against the straw as if it would bite him at any moment. It was coarse and almost wig-like. Jack lifted it cautiously until a face stared back. His heart stopped for a moment and he almost dropped it, his head bleeding in throbs. When a snoozing feminine face manifested, Jack relaxed and released a sigh. Her body wedged directly between Jack's legs that, thank God, still had trousers on. But they were unbuttoned. _Fuck._

When he lifted the girl's head higher, he identified ashen brown ooze from that of his naval, pasted along her entire chin and neck. Her fat breasts squeezed together, about to burst, tucked between his legs. Her face smeared in uncanny colours across her eyes and cheeks. Was she some minge Jack picked up the other night? What even happened last night? His head was full of fuzz. His eyes hurt, his mind ached, his crotch stung: he still had to pee.

Finally, he shoved the unknown woman aside, hardly taking care if she'd wake up or not and sat up, blood rushing to his head and the backs of his eyes: grey crowded his vision. He shook and batted his head with his palm, trying to release some of the pain. It only made things worse. Banshees surrounded his mind. Fortunately, colour had returned.

Jack groped round in front of him with wince and scowl, searching automatically for an escape. First, the bitter cold of broken plastic met his clumsy hands. As he scrolled down, freezing fake leather led Jack fumbling through random fuzzy curves until a proper handle met his fingers. He tugged it, failing a few three times until finally, succession. Immediately, Jack tumbled out, plummeting into muck, almost smashing his already aching head onto an inconveniently placed edge.

As soon as the world stopped spinning, Jack realigned himself onto his feet, smugly peeking over his shoulder to find the blonde chick half dead within a cave of ugly brown chunks and corroded seats. Glancing back onto himself, Jack had it all over him, too: stomach, trousers, face, and even his hair. He frowned at this misfortune.

The street was unfamiliar. Why was he even on a street? Fallen leaves or the occasional homeless slob lied near rusting fences masked everything. Jack took no mind to it. The bitter winds blew at his face and the fear of being lost plagued his thoughts. Where was his shirt? Oh well, his bladder was a larger concern. His heavy grip on the handle gradually released, as if he were to hurt himself if he went any faster. Dazed, he scuttled forward, numbly watching the passers-by of trees until he scanned for street names. He shuffled half naked through empty sidewalks, searching desperately under exhausted lids for a nice green sign that could lead him home or at least a toilet room. He shouldn't be too far away.

Nothing. The sun was making its impression between the tall surrounding houses along with early risers joining the streets. None of them had familiar faces, but most pointed their noses at Jack with gross astonishment. What the hell were they staring at? So what if he didn't have a shirt in the dead of autumn? His body wasn't _that _plump.

After seeing enough sickened faces, Jack finally glanced down at himself, trying to make sense of all this rubbish. His undone trousers caught his eyes. His dick was hanging out like no one's business. Fuck. It was probably that woman's fault. He immediately zipped up indecently and continued his search without problem.

Jack had to be at least half a mile away from that random, anonymous vehicle with that girl and her up-chuck. Her identity was still a mystery. Who was she? What happened last night? How did he get here? Where's a toilet?

...

Familiarities began springing up at multiple corners. With newly found motivation, Jack weaved easily through the streets, passing by the occasional morning jogger. Luckily, there weren't many people up so fucking early. Who cares about them anyway? He had his own problems.

As soon as the façade of Jack Merridew's home, the dormitories of his school, displayed, he dashed for it, dodging strategically between every parked car across the multitude of streets. By the time he reached the gate to the dorms, he noticed heavy locks padding up the centre, mocking him. Or so it seemed: perhaps Jack's fuzz-filled brain was just fooling him again. He stared at it dumbly for what felt like centuries.

The gate was tall, fixed with long, thin steel rods coated in black, put together beautifully by generous artistic curves that painted pictures of birds and other unidentifiable figures. Sometimes Jack couldn't stop staring at it when he found himself stuck in this situation. And it happened quite frequently. Today didn't seem too different: a recurring idea popped into Merridew's ill head and he trudged eagerly over freshly cut grass and the sloppy remains of trees, racing through shrubbery while drawing near the brick wall of the school's perimeter. Jack didn't realize his shoes were missing until the sole of his right foot stomped onto a loose limb of a bush.

His hands hastened forward anonymously. The murky ground beneath his palms caught him, Merridew not even bothering to give in to the chronic pain in his foot. He rushed onward with slight limp, hobbling about like a marionette.

Bushes scraped his naked skin, going unnoticed as the targeted location opened into view. Jack turned the final corner and an even longer, receding line of wall expanded in front of him. He crept forward, scanning over brick-by-brick until he discovered a familiar bald spot in the earth. Mapped in footprints and poor cover-up dirt, Jack observed fondly, knowing the item of interest: he placed it there himself.

The redhead whirled round, facing a barrage of foliage. He dived his hands through the wood and leafs, obtained what he was looking for and returned to his previous post with hands full of a ladder.

Jack and his fellow freshmen friends had carried the ladder here. They'd often sneak out of their dorms for the evening, only to return to a locked gate. They'd solve the issue by climbing over the perimeter by friend's hands and a good shove. The method slowly decayed after several days of lock out until one of them proposed a new idea that promised to be less painful and dirty. From the father of one of Jack's friend's tool shed, held the ladder Merridew currently put up.

Its feet struck into the loose soil. He climbed up half-heartedly until he hastily reached the top and before the redhead jumped over the obstacle, he sloppily grabbed a hold of the ladder and tossed it as far as he could into the woods. It landed with an explosion of noise as a few crows launched off into the sky, stirring a great roar of feathers against wind. Helplessly, Jack desperately held his ears, twisting his face into a scowl. The young man shook his hands away and finally pushed himself away from the wall, landed on his soles, wincing, and clambered off toward the nearest entrance to the dorms.

With a pounding head, Jack opened said entrance which was made entirely of metal painted in the shade of an unattractive red which didn't correspond to the rest of the greyish brown building. Jack always wondered why they never fixed that.

Oh well, he thought with a shrug, already in the dormitory stairwell, escaping the chronic buzz of wind and birds, into a distilled, perfectly squared room. The windowless prism held the largest and most intimidating spiral staircase Jack has ever had to climb on his lazy nights. Interesting thing about the staircase was the fact that it was even a spiral: did the architects to this building think spirals served class? Less than class, Jack thought, more like an incongruous pain.

There was always that one flickering light on the ceiling, directly below the start of the spiralling stairs that never seized to irk Jack. Today its flicker intensified: blinding the redhead by its artificial light, disorienting him by the quick drawback of darkness. Jack had to stop a moment, clenching onto anything at arm's length to keep himself standing or better yet, throw up. The world gradually quit spinning round him. His fingers reached his clamped lids and squeezed in toward the bridge of his nose, releasing, squeezing and repeating.

The fuzz in his brain began to dither off agonisingly slow. Despite the splitting pains in his cranium, Jack released his death grip on whatever he had been holding… a hand rail. O, this was a good find: Merridew slid his hand back up the cool metal of the spiralling pole and collapsed heavily onto it in his hand's wake. Below the rail followed his feet, keeping his footing accurate and not miss any step, even in his frenzied, imbalanced state.

With his free hand, Merridew kept it flying through the stagnant air, attempting to grab hold of the centre of the spiral, trying to gain perfect balance. All endeavours failed, leaving Jack to be the clumsy leaf on the stem. He strenuously climbed up the black metal steps, desperately wishing his bed to press against his exhausted body. He was cold - he finally came to realize - and half naked with trousers that probably weren't even his own pair. Impulsively, Jack checked the possibly foreign pockets if it kept his dorm key. Oddly enough, they were there, which relieved Jack of his worry. But why would foreign trousers have his keys? Unless they were stolen? Wait a moment… would that then mean Jack had stolen these trousers filled with a stolen key which belonged to him originally? A win-win situation, he mused.

Fumbling across the tormenting steps, Jack heaved himself up the railing, feeling rightfully dead. These steps have never been so harsh to him before. Their spiral didn't help the spinning of the world. Jack almost stopped mid-step to catch his breath. Enduring the bugger, he carried on, catching the third floor – or was it the second? _Oh fuck_, he'd have to go back a few steps if that were true. He already travelled up pretty far and he wasn't even paying attention. Was that bed he mentioned earlier too much to ask for? Jack stumbled down the stairs. At least they were smooth, he thought to himself vaguely.

A few steps later, he reached a platform that led to an unstylish wooden door – did all the doors here have the similar theme of not matching anything? Oh well, not as if Jack can do anything about it. He yanked opened the surprisingly heavy door, welcomed immediately into a windy hallway of grey, much like the exterior, only a lighter shade with less bird dung. Everything about the corridor was vacant, not even a piece of furniture to brighten up the place. Jack scaled the walls as soon as he left the door frame, leaving it carelessly open as he trudged toward his dorm.

After several sloppy footfalls, each step filled with burden. Each of his hands now hugged desperately on the grey walls, clinging on for what felt like dear life. There was nothing to grip: he was starting to slip. _No!_ The door was so close, he knew he could make it if he just… took a few more… steps.

_THUD_


	4. Chapter 4

**Pardon this one being so late. I got busy...drawing. Anyway. Slight warning here: cuss words along with at least one British swear that probably isn't that harmful but I'm warning it anyway.**

**Have fun reading. :)**

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><p>Jack Merridew's weary eyes cracked opened, seeing nothing but blur; it was white, everything was. Or was it grey? He blinked and scrolled his eyes round, hoping to clear his vision. The ceiling stared at him. The hallway ceiling? No, that wasn't possible: beneath Merridew was something far plusher than the tile from the hallway. Besides, he didn't remember falling on his back. But where?<p>

Attempting to sit up, Jack stopped immediately

"Doing that probably isn't a good idea, Jack."

An accented voice? This was rare. It was familiar, and he could put a name to it easily. It was Jack's French roommate, Gwenael Vauclain - Gwen for short.

"Here," The man's face appeared above Jack with a glass half full of some clear liquid in his sun kissed hand. Jack found himself staring mindlessly at the glass, then to Gwen.

"Some water for your troubles," Gwen said tenderly, the corner of his mouth curled at one corner with a charm as he indicated the glass of water, stirring it gently. Merridew blinked, confused.

"Whut?" the redhead, dubious, shut his eyes in a scowl, bringing his chin in for effect. A second later, he heard a sigh. Glass against wood rang next to Jack's ear.

"Drink it when you're ready."

"Where am I?" Jack asked in a hoarse and gurgled voice. He immediately cleared his throat. Gwen kept kneeling by Jack's side, his elbow resting upon something out of the redhead's blurry eyesight. He smirked, not keeping eye contact.

"You're on your bed: in your room – er - _our_ room; our dorm." He explained calmly, correcting himself as he went.

"Did you find me out in the corridor?" Jack inquired as he adjusted in bed. He laid his back against the neighbouring wall, scanning the area: familiar furniture setup with all his belongings. His bureau stood across the room to the left closely beside the wardrobe, arrayed in his textbooks, folders, a dictionary or two, non-school related items of portraits of friends and family, war posters taped to the surface of the desk, a few clay statues given by a talented friend. Merridew's attention snapped to Gwen as soon as he spoke.

"No," he answered, his silver-yellow eyes scanning Jack's face and neck. "Daniel from the second floor found you. He said you collapsed by his dorm."

_Oops_.

"And knowing me and my knowledge of drunkards, he caught me up in the situation, leaving you in my hands. I've been taking care of you since then: even had to dress you in your… well, the way you usually sleep. I thought you'd be more...comfortable."

Gwen pointed at the blankets covering Jack from his feet to his naval. Beneath the sheets was only skin. Jack returned to Gwen, mouth agape, slightly concerned.

"You know: you've always been such a mother to me, Gwen." Jack stated, somewhat randomly. The latter chuckled with a charmed smile. He and Jack both knew this wasn't the first time the redhead returned home drunk or hung over.

"Well, if you need to puke, I've set up a bucket for you," Gwen explained, pointing a finger off the edge of the bed. Jack couldn't see it but he trusted him. Gwen smiled again and patted Jack's shoulder. His smile looked a tad odd this time. A pause.

"You know I'm skipping class taking care of you: you best be grateful." Gwen jabbed an accusing finger in the air at Jack's face whom didn't realise how stupid he was making it appear. With a slight change in countenance, Jack returned a smirk - caught in his little cheeky act - and said feigning sarcasm

"Thank you."

He paused a moment, pondering what else to say. Jack let his eyes drop, seeing a clean stomach of his own. In slight surprise, the redhead snapped his attention back at Gwen who snapped mutually in response.

"Did you clean me?" Jack asked sceptically, sort of with a condemning undertone.

"Yes," Gwen answered simply with a laugh after a moment's pause. "It comes along with the package of 'taking care of you' and your drunken arse."

Jack nodded numbly, drifting his dry gaze elsewhere. It seemed obvious to him now that his question was answered so easily.

"Hey," Jack started up after a quick pause. "Do you know what on earth I did last night?"

Gwen shook his head with a melted smile.

"Sorry, mate."

"How about Daniel, does he know anything?"

"If he does, he was ill to inform me."

Jack sprang away from the wall, excitement and energy pulsating through his veins.

"_Whoa_, hey – What are you doing?" Gwen helplessly watched Jack flop his naked legs across the bedside. Quickly, without much consideration, Gwen stood and blockaded his roommate with a panic-stricken face, hands sprung out defensively.

"Gunna ask Daniel a few questions, what else?" Jack replied as if it were obvious. He blinked jadedly, scanning the obstruction blocking his path. "Now move your arse." He demanded, shoving his hands into his friend's hips. Gwen faltered backward but rebounded quickly and heartedly took the redhead's now standing figure by the shoulders and delicately shoved him back on to the mattress. The man smacked into the sheets.

With a wince and hand to face, Jack's brain filled immediately with fireworks. His vision went grey.

"_Ohhw_," the redhead groaned stridently, feeling heavy shifts below his shoulders.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

"What the bloody _hell_ did you do that for?" Jack yelled at him hoarsely as he sat up, until a hand pinned his right shoulder firmly into the bed.

"You're hung-over, Jack," Gwen stated austerely, his voice close. "I can't have you wandering about the halls – naked for one thing – searching for a man who you'll never find—"

"'He's in 'is dorm, like you said!" Jack spat with dark, glaring eyes, pointing them nowhere. Strong hands shook his pathetic body.

"Don't you listen to a word I say?" Gwen yelled, "He's not in his room because he's in _class_. All I said was that he lives on the second floor, directly below us. Is it that impossible to understand?"

Silence. Gwen huffed out a sigh and took a moment to settle his nerves. He glanced past his shoulder, spying Jack's desk, ignoring it to watch the dust waft within the room in an unspecific direction.

The redhead stared closely with an aching brain. His ears rang and his skin boiled. The sudden mute atmosphere was positive as his arid eyes glared at the ceiling bleakly. His friend was right. How stupid could Jack possibly get? Sighing, he looked over at Gwen's direction, watching nothing. A pause, a hiatus.

"How do you suppose I have a talk with him, then?" Jack asked calmly with suppressed frustration in his undertone. Gwen glanced at him sidelong, slight curiosity filling his eyes. He returned his posture and released Jack from previous confinement. With a few steps, his back faced the redhead who finally sat up. He held his chin for a moment.

"I could get him for you after school."

Jack scowled immediately. _Rubbish response_.

"And how long will that take exactly? Do you know how many classes he bloody well has?"

"No, but-"

"I can do it myself if it fucking makes things faster."

Jack stood, vexation obscuring his face. Gwen stared at him with a widened glare, silently warning him to stop. The redhead ignored the tension as he began searching for his street clothes. He went for his closet, rummaging through every article of clothing until everything appeared on the floor. Within his pool of fabrics, he stood erect, looked Gwen straight in the eye and said

"They're dirty."

An awkward pause and the two roommates stared at each other in deep silence. Gwen finally furrowed his brows and smiled with a sheepish laugh. Jack continued his accusation.

"It was your turn to wash them."

Gwen bit the inside of his cheek and waited a moment for an appropriate time to speak.

"I…I forgot."

"Oh course you did, you cock-up." Jack remarked vehemently.

Gwen clenched his hands into fists with a reddened face.

"Don't call me that: you're not twelve anymore!"

"Fuck off! And let me borrow your clothes."

"No, you drunk bastard!"

"I'm not drunk! You said it yourself that I was hung over."

"That's not the point! Anyway, I can't let you leave this dorm. Not like that."

"Then lend me your trousers at least."

"Dear lord, Jack! You're missing the point! I'm not lending you anything. Now get back to bed: you're shaking."

Jack paused in his fuming state, finally realising Gwen wasn't lying. He peeked down, noticing his bones jitter unnoticeably, his legs about to give in. With furrowed brows, he looked back up at his roommate. Fucking hell – he was right again.

Jack walked over to his bed, however in reality; he lurked toward his unruly mattress with its mountain of sheets and misplaced pillows. As if it were an accident, the redhead fumbled into his bed as his back faced the ceiling.

"Talks like a mother, too." He grumbled into the bare part of the mattress. The white sheets half surrounded his head with protruding ears. Only silence, as usual – a habit for this dorm. An unspoken rule, unexplained.

The silence broke as the sound of fabrics gracefully slid past each other. They drifted over his drained body and he waited for them to settle into his curves.

"Jack, I need to be in my next class. By the time lessons are over, I want to see you in here, okay? I'll make sure I have Daniel with me ready with answers." Gwen said, half calm, half rushed as Jack listened to him go about the room, rummaging things around. Nothing more than the click of a lock. Jack sighed deeper into his mattress, heating his face. Why does he have to be so stupid sometimes?

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><p><strong>Dear oh dear, this chapter turned out more gay than I originally intended. But Jack isn't gay - not in this chapter.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for this chapter being so late. I didn't intend this. I was on hiatus. OTL**

**Oh and before I forget (no pun intended): I completely appreciate the reviews. I took some of your guys' advice and fixed a few things along with lots of proofreading. Thank you. :)**

**Slight warning: Explicit British slang that I may or may not have over-used, along with one French insult.**

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><p>Zipping up his trousers, Jack Merridew positioned himself in front of the sink. He turned the tap. Crashing water filled his ears as his trembling hands run underneath, warming up. Merridew rubbed his filthy hands, watching it gurgle down into the silver drain. He turned the tap again, drying his dripping hands. Before he left, he examined the emptiness between the top of the sink to the greying ceiling. White, yet the longer Merridew stared, the more he felt nagged there was something missing. He had nothing to compare to. It cursed his flesh and mind.<p>

The familiar aching crept back into his brain. It felt worse than fireworks or the rhythmic pounding: banshees and thunder clapped within the confines of his cranium. In pure agony, he clenched his crimson bangs with a hand, about to yank them out of their follicles. Merridew succumbed and crashed knees-first onto the tiled flooring. Eyesight became unbearably severe. The tiles beneath his thick and naked knees blurred and faded. His blue eyes flew open as a new fear penetrated his adumbrated thoughts between the strings of overbearing electricity.

The tips of his fingers no longer sensed the smooth touch of the toilet room wall near the exit. Helplessness blitzed through his heart. Each sense took their absence, leaving Merridew feeling, seeing, smelling, hearing, tasting nothing but sand... and the violence roar of water crashing against sharp, jagged rocks. He sealed his useless eyes shut, praying to some God in the sky to end this torture. They reopened: cracked and misshapen tiles surround. Merridew turned where he knelt and in utter confusion, seeing the hazy image of an unfamiliar lavatory. Cramped and narrow, but oddly familiar. Above a decrepit sink diagonal to Merridew, beside the toilet, the outline of a frame which mimicked the grey wall opposite. Anxious curiousity forced him up onto his bare and calloused feet. His numb eyes glued to the phenomenon, hesitantly approaching what evoked dread into his throbbing veins. The icy tiles followed beneath his every step until he reached the façade. Nothing. Doubt crept across his mind: was this some sort of joke? What sane person would decorate their lavatory as such?

Merridew's quivering hand hesitantly approached the platform, growing petrified at what might be behind it. He pressed the tips of his pale fingers against a smooth surface. At his dismal, delicate flakes hugged his skin. He thumbed it over, feeling soot. He left a blank spot where his finger traced over. It was colourful and vibrant. Instantly, he rubbed the entire surface of its smooth, sooty texture slowly, then gradually faster.

When both hands caked in black, Merridew returned his petrified gaze at a face too young and obscured. Across an unreachable plane stood tauntingly a creature with strawberry red hair, obfuscating his painted face.

Its upper chest; a message carved in red.

_SAVAGE_

Rage and alarm detonated, shattering the creature, spreading his disease throughout the room. No pain. He retracted his bleeding hand, raking it through his crimson hair. The throbbing pounced on his incoherent brain. The ocean within a shell enveloped both ears. Merridew met with the floor.

Jack Merridew woke in a start. His breath caught in his throat and his skin was damp from sweat. He blinked tightly, trying to make sense of things. He lifted his hand and led his fingers along his temples until an epiphany struck: retracting and examining a clean fist. It didn't sting, nor was the skin misshapen or penetrated. Jack let out a sigh until the door swung violently open, the knob slamming into the leading wall. Two towering gentlemen replaced the frame: one with hand in pocket and holding his rucksack across his shoulder, the second standing awkwardly, holding a modest smirk. The first chap waltzed right in as if he owned the place, while the other gent lingered at the door. A cheeky grin swept across the other man's face.

"Oi Jack, put some bloody clothes on, you wank-ar." He taunted, placing his bag down against the wall by the window. "Can see your flippin' penis a mile away if ye wanted to, eh Gwenny?"

He brazenly glanced over to Gwen who smiled weakly, quickly returning to Jack who snorted a laugh.

"Shut up, you gormless berk."

"Hey," the man jabbed a finger at Jack "show a little respect for someone who helps pay your bloody rent."

Jack faced his palms toward Daniel defensively with an edge of sass as the man jumped onto the end of Jack's bed, smiling widely. He crossed his tall legs and sucked in air excitedly.

"So," he sighed out "a little bird told me that a ginger wanted some answers for his _wee_ hang over the night before, is that correct?"

"Yeah and would you mind releasing my feet? Your fat arse is suffocating them." Jack chafed and provoked his friend with the wriggle of his toes. The man slid off with a chuckle and unknotted his own legs. He leaned forward, held the edge of the bed and peeked over his shoulder to see the ginger staring back.

"Alright," the man huffed hotly and turned facing his naked friend. "Where should I start?"

Gwen shut the door to their room and placed his belongings down by Jack's desk, then went off toward the darkening window by their guest's bag and stared out at the wood.

"When'd you see me last, Daniel, d'you 'member at all?" Jack asked, lax and all, beginning to stare through his dark brown-haired friend as he blinked off to think.

"Uhm," Daniel hummed while cupping his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Last I recall was you driving off by yourself."

"Tha's it?" Jack queried dubiously, scowling his face and slightly lifting his upper lip. Daniel leaned forward a bit, his eyes squinting at the wall as if he was reading. He hummed again.

"Well, you were roaring drunk, I'll give you that, my friend."

"That's nothing."

"You didn't crash at least."

"I ended up with some minge: of course something had to have happened."

"A minge, you say?" An impish smile perked upon Daniel's lips, "What'd you do with her, you tosser?" He playfully nudged his fist at Jack's waist with an ever-growing smile.

"That's just it! I have no bloomin' clue." Jack trilled, frowning, unconvinced. "That's why I asked Gwen to ask you to tell me what I'd done the previous night."

"Why is it that I'm so important, huh?" Daniel responded, immediately losing his grin.

"You're not," Jack huffed "You're just the last person who'd possibly have a clue as to what I'd done last night – or at least I hoped."

"You rely on me too much, Jack," Daniel remarked, reaching over to ruffle his friend's bed-head. When he leaned away, his smile returned.

"But, uh… yeah. Drove off, never saw you again till right now – er, since early this morning. Sorry, mate."

Jack went silent, boring his eyes onto his stomach, about to drill a hole in his flesh.

"But I reckon you just had a lot to drink, drove off, and eventually you paid to bag off a girl."

"I didn't think you had it in you, Jack." Gwen remarked from the window, smiling devilishly. Jack let him have the two-finger salute, but the other man looked off just in time with raised brows of mocking disinterest.

"I hope that answered some-fin, mate," Daniel dismissed, sighing happily as he moved to get up. "But I've got to take my leave: got a date tonight."

"You've never had a date since high school, you _couillon."_ Gwen chimed in, half shyly.

"Hey, you, shut up." He pointed a foul finger at the man "I'll have you know her name's Diana and she's a totty of a girl."

He then strode over to Gwen, eyeing him, swiped for his rucksack and marched over toward the exit.

"All right then, I'm off." He dismissed as he twisted the knob. "Cheerio and have a good night – I will be."

A second later, he was gone beyond the door in laughs, leaving Gwen and Jack's dorm silent as ever. A vague aftershock of Daniel's leave left the two men flummoxed for words. Then Gwen stepped toward Jack's bed, staring at him to catch his eyes, worry filling his face.

"Hey Jack," he pointed out; making the man on the bed start "you seem different. You feeling ill?"

Jack glanced up to his friend, not a thought in his head. He sighed and sat up.

"I'm fine... thanks." He murmured as his eyes drifted back to his naval.

"You weren't saying much back there after what Daniel said. You usually always have something to say – _'specially_ to that airhead."

Jack didn't respond. In spite of this, Gwen sat beside him, keeping his concerned eyes fixed on the ginger. A small pause swept through the room.

"…Did you, uh – did something happen before we arrived?"

The question seemed precarious as it wafted throughout the room, almost as if it had never been said. Gwen furrowed his brows in apprehension, waiting for a response. He listened to his friend's sigh once more before Jack wiggled his mouth slightly for no reason.

"Nothing important," he paused. "Got a bit of a headache is all."

The latter nodded, then looked over his shoulder toward the window to see a darkened pane. When he glanced back, he stood, peeked over to Jack and said

"Well, seems like you're too bothered by my company: I'm going to take my leave, perhaps have a shower, even."

"You're all right." Jack commented tastelessly, but Gwen only smirked a little, aware of the implication if there was any.

"Fine, but I'm taking a shower no matter what the hell you say." Gwen jested and hastily stepped toward Jack, lent forward and quickly pressed his lips to the man's freckled cheek, retracting back as swiftly as he had arrived only to say

"But anyway, why not you just forget about the matter? It's not as if it's entirely important, is it?"

The latter didn't even glance up like expected: he kept staring at his stomach, appearing almost…sullen. _Surely_... Gwen dismissed this: he might not get anywhere if he asked. He waited a moment – waiting for Jack to say one last possible thing – before he slowly turned on his heels and left toward the bathroom, leaving his roommate to think.


	6. Chapter 6

A serene sky arrayed in a rippling dress of Maya blue let flowers of a school garden dance in her wake and the lank trees to sway. Birds chirped their anonymous tunes from afar as the miniscule insects covered the grass. A beautiful scene, of course, if Jack Merridew were to accompany it.

Sitting in a lukewarm oak seat, a large glass screen, orange from sunlight filtering through the autumn leaves, displayed an unreachable land of solitude and freedom. But here he sat in a room full of several other students, each showing a spectrum of jaded to enticed interest as to what the teacher in the front of the class had to say. Jack observed every one of them with his chin resting in his palm at the end of a bony arm, his pink elbow digging into his desk.

He noticed a man sitting directly in front of him, legs crossed with back straight and stiff as a board placed behind a personal desk similar to Jack's. Traveling up his nape grew scissor-snipped, dark-chocolate hair that cut straight across, directly below his brain. Most likely his own mother styled it herself over the previous weekend, Jack mused, finishing his scan of the uniformed male whose attention could not be peeled away from the blabbering teacher. Jack glanced off from the coffee-coloured collar suffocating the man's neck onto the rest of the brown blazers.

Everyone sat within their chairs, tapping away at the wood by their pencil, staring off into space, curling over their desk jotting down notes or watching the teacher as he moved about the front of the class, clacking away with his pure white chalk against a myrtle board smeared in grey. Jack deemed whatever he was saying unimportant as his blue eyes drifted off once more toward the window to his left. Something caught his eye, however: a pair of glistening, aureolin orbs glared malevolently in return of Jack's curious stare. The man across the room, sitting at his desk the same as everyone else, frowned, faint creases hugging the corners of his small, pale lips. His tall, thin nose poked up into the air in such a way, Jack thought it as pernickety.

The yellow-eyed man sat without legs crossed, without tapping his pen, without paying any mind to the teacher – his attention full on Jack. Those glaring eyes captivated the ginger. A notebook hit the polished tile floor with a soft clank on its cardboard back, opening all the pages like bird wings.

The yellow-eyed man's ominous aura rippled and released Jack from the ghastly tension. He quickly took his stare back to the front of the class, sighing with relief until those piercing aureolin eyes returned. It was almost as if he could feel the glare on the side of his face.

Jack's skin began to boil: who was this kid and what was his deal? Come to think of it, he's never seen this man before. The man had been wearing the school's uniform, however: a coffee-coloured blazer hiding a light grey shirt with a collar cradling a chestnut necktie. Long taupe trousers reached for black under-polished dress shoes, and pinned to the blazer's left breast pocket was the school's emblem. Not the most handsome design, but it served class, unlike the doors.

Jack's nerves reached toward his peak and his fist choked his pen until the bell rung throughout the school. It calmed him back into his regular sanity as he watched the classroom stand and collect their belongings before he even wanted to get up himself. As he watched, he released his implement, glancing off to his left. The yellow-eyed man was gone. Probably buggered off, Jack mused, probably the first to reach the door, in fact.

The redhead stood up amongst the remaining students, putting his own possessions into his bag. Quietly, he scurried out, leaving behind the anomalous memory.

...

Jack Merridew weaved through the hallways as wide as a line of fifteen enormous women, half-flooded with students all wearing the exact same thing save for a few minor differences according to the individual's style. He walked through the middle of this, eyes set on the double-bend in the marble hallway with the left side doused in the sun's reflection, obscured by students' creeping shadows hogging the path. As Jack approached, passing by a large, polished cement pillar connected to the final corner, the man was blinded, some students left just enough for a crack of the sun's reflection to stream through. His blue eyes burned and immediately shielded them with the back of his palm. The students' buzzing round him filled his startled void. Before his prime initiative resurfaced, a hand clapped his back, forcing him to smack into the rigid marble, just missing his teeth.

"Huh, didn't think you'd be so on end, Jack." The voice said, calm and familiar. Hands made their way to the ginger's arm. Jack pushed away from the floor with his other hand, a sturdy grip kept him in balance. Once on his feet, he peered up to Daniel's smiling face.

"You alright, mate?" He asked while releasing Jack's arm, snickering a bit. The brunette wore the same uniform as everyone else.

Jack nodded, slightly lightheaded as he held the side of his face, squinting at the friend.

"Well, um… You through with all your classes?" Daniel asked, a little too curious. Jack nodded again half-heartedly, not completely computing the information.

"Are you heading home, like usual?"

_So many questions_.

"Yeah, I'm knackered," Jack fibbed, nodding, "I wanna go home... back to my dorm."

Daniel puckered his thin lips and shared the nod. He hummed, placing his fists against his hips.

"Well, would you care if I walked you home?" He paused, thinking that over, "Not like that."

Jack smirked at the sly joke, releasing his face, slowing down his movements methodically.

"No," Daniel brightened at the response and took the lead, walking into the sun as if it was earthbound fog. Jack lagged behind, narrowing his eyes tightly from the light piercing his flesh.

They walked side-by-side, hands stuffed into their pockets, approaching the vast courtyard filled with grass, short lanky trees, white walkways and the nicely fashioned student body standing about with a background of white buildings like an empty canvas covered in brown brush strokes. Jack and Daniel followed the paths of pale cement surrounding the spots of green and single trees, gently swayed by zephyrs.

Out here in the open-air with a ceiling of blue sky, Jack felt tranquil at each step he took, watching the individual school buildings saunter by as he made his way toward a small bundle of steps leading to a gate similar to the dormitories – only slightly more posh and elegant. Beautiful, lush plants formed the colourful walkway leading to the open gate, students flowing through like wind passing lungs.

As the two friends passed the border, the purity of the school immediately drifted and merged with the darkened buildings across the street, right along the car park. It was always sort of a shock to see just how quickly the gloom invaded the school's boundaries untainted façade.

Jack and Daniel finally returned to the dormitories, tired and lively. The brunette was the first to reach the red entrance, opening it up and gesturing Jack to step inside.

"After you." He said in smiles, bowing slightly, playing a noble role. Before he went in, Jack playfully punched his mate on the collarbone. They both shared a giggle as they entered the building, allowing the thick door to shut behind them.

They swept up the spiral stairs, Daniel suddenly becoming animated and eager with light steps. Jack noticed this, puzzled.

"What's u—"

"I've been dying to hear you ask the question." Daniel interrupted, too excited for delay. One eyebrow crept up Jack's forehead.

"What?" He asked, greatly boggled.

"What do you _mean_ by 'what'? Last night. Ask me. Shoot."

Jack paused to think that over, weighing out what his friend could mean by "last night".

"What about it?" He asked, vaguely recognising the meaning behind his question. His friend gave him an irked look.

"Last night. Diana." Daniel said bluntly.

"Oh,"

"Shoot."

"How'd that go?"

Daniel leaked out a laugh, sliding his hand smoothly along the handrail as they slowly made their way up toward the first floor.

"Finally you catch on," he laughed again and glanced at Jack.

"Well it sounds like you didn't fail." The ginger retorted, refusing to take the piss.

"That's right: we got along swimmingly." The two made it to a platform that ended with a large wooden door. They stood round, unsure whether to enter or not.

"Oh, do you wish for me walk you to your door, _madam_?" Daniel asked cheekily, grasping the gold knob. Jack glowered at him as the door swung open, fanning him cold.

"If I say no, you're going to follow me anyway."

"_Cor_rect!" Daniel waved the redhead in, the latter complying, an irked frown never leaving his mouth. He pushed at the door which almost smacked the brunette on the nose.

"So as I was _saying_," the former hovered over Jack's shoulder as they made their way through the corridor. "Diana and I had a magnificent time together. Dare to hear more?"

Jack kept walking, already about to turn round and choke his friend.

"Well I'll have you know that we snogged."

"How was she?" Jack asked, hardly interested in Daniel's date.

"I'll tell you she wasn't a flounder," he giggled, "She was no virgin to it, if you catch my drift."

"What else?"

"After that we went to her place and-" Daniel made little awkward noises, trying to heavily suggest something, "and had a shag."

"What?" Jack piped up, astonished as he grabbed for his key in his pocket. "You're not yankin' my chain, are you?"

"I kid you not, my friend," Daniel said proudly, a large smile filling his face ear-to-ear. "On the first date in fact and I think we'll be seeing each other again soon."

"Are you sure she isn't playing you?" Jack inquired as they reached his door, Daniel already leaning against the wall as the key crunched into the lock. He snorted distastefully.

"I bloody hope not." The door opened and Daniel left the wall hastily.

"Anyway, you don't need to be bothered by me any further: I'll take my leave, Jack. I will catch you tomorrow. Cheerio." The brunette waved and the hallway was empty.

...

Jack shut the door behind him, staring through the ground as he slipped his key back into his pocket. The dorm was silent as usual. Nothing happening, not even an open window to fill the void. Jack tossed his bag onto his bed, not having the need to do his homework, and walked over to the glass, checking out if it was too bright. At least the tree in front of their room kept them in decent shade. Jack turned around, eyes quickly adjusting to the difference in darkness, only to catch his roommate's appearance.

"No one checks the mail, it would seem," the man said in indignation, his French quite elaborate. "I found this on the floor proceeding the door," he handed up an envelope covered in writing.

"I don't believe that it's for me. It's from some girl." Gwen approached the ginger, holding the slip of paper between two fingers in front of Jack's face. The latter grabbed it and immediately drew to the handwriting: sort of swirly and feminine – nothing Jack has seen before, save for his mother's.

"Apparently it's addressed from a girl named 'Fiona'," The man continued, taking a seat on his own bed across from Jack's. The latter couldn't peel his eyes away from the letter. Gwen's eyes brightened.

"Hey," he began, playfully swinging his legs back and forth against the side of the mattress, "Fiona could be that girl from the other night. She could be writing you to—"

"It's a love letter. A confessional." Jack interrupted blankly, eyes glued to the open paper, continuing to scan the writing.

"'A confessional'?" Gwen echoed, curious. "Are you trying to prove me wrong?"

"Prostitutes don't write love letters." Jack retorted, giving a quick glance at his roommate, smirking a little. Gwen leered in return, disgruntled having lost the petty discussion. Jack continued reading, stepping in front of Gwen with half a mind. He made a laughing noise, as if he discovered something.

"I knew it," Jack jabbed a finger at the paper before showing his finding to Gwen. "This isn't even addressed to me." His roommate checked where Jack's finger indicated. It was someone's name.

"For some lucky chap named Roger." The ginger retracted the letter and began folding it back to its original form.

"What are you going to do?" Gwen asked, watching his friend as he placed the folded paper back into its envelope.

"Well, since the 'mail man' – or woman, got our room numbers mixed up, I'm going to give it to the proper bloke."

"Right now?"

"Why save it for another day? The man lives in this building."

"Right…"

"Plus, who wants delayed mail?" Jack slipped the envelope into his pocket. "It shouldn't take me that long. I'll be back before supper."

"Good luck. I'll be waiting."

"It's a simple puzzle, Gwen. I don't need luck." Jack explained, turning his back toward his roommate as he approached the exit. As soon as the door slammed shut, the room fell silent, leaving Gwen to envision only the outcome of Jack's doings.


	7. Chapter 7

**Uh God. _ I am so terribly sorry for the immense wait. Microsoft Word wasn't being my friend this time: it completely threw out what I had written for this chapter (or from what it was), forcing me to rewrite all that I had lost. It was so...painstaking... ;_; So in warning to you now, this chapter may seem slightly rushed and possibly even that of complete crap (or premature, even). But anyways, I do hope you have fun reading, despite what I just said. c:**

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><p>All was silent as Jack Merridew quietly stepped through the remote, almost eerie hallway. Every identical wood door uniformly aligned across the walls until the end by the final immense double doors. Nothing made a sound behind each rectangular passage as the man passed by; behind each door kept in quiescence like people in hiding during a war.<p>

Upon approaching the oak doors, to his surprise, something from underneath his shoe crunched. When he lifted his foot and stepped away, he discovered a leaf, coarse and fragile, all spread apart in greens and reds across beige tile, standing out like splattered blood. Wonder where that came from? Perhaps Jack brought it in by accident. Or someone else prior to his arrival? He quickly brushed off the thought as he approached the exit, creaking it open until he was surrounded by the familiar cylindrical room.

Once he heard the door shut, he immediately dug his hand into his pocket, already having the dorm number erased from his memory. He examined the envelope, scanning for any numbers until he found his answer: three floors away was his destination. At that, he returned the paper back into his pocket, having fulfilled one half of his duty, already trekking up the metal steps without a thought more, numbly watching the grated stairs circulate like a fan losing power; instead of a uniform wind, a steady draft wafted throughout the tall room.

The fourth floor arrived shorter than expected, but as Jack continued walking up the steps, he noticed, upon the metal platform by the hallway entrance, a man. Draped in half his uniform with only the school's blazer as far as Jack could see, fixed with baggy trousers too long for his legs, pooling at the floor, he solemnly slouched over the railing, watching nothing. The man's stress seemed to seep out of him as smoke lifted away from his head, traveling up, almost flummoxing about toward the fifth floor. Jack spotted only a glimpse of the man's cigarette between his index and middle finger until the spiral of steps obscured his vision.

The ginger hastily reached the fifth floor, stepping off onto the platform when the man-in-question's name popped into the front of his brain.

_Roger._

Where has he heard that name before?

_Roger._

Rarely has Jack run into a gentleman named Roger, save for perhaps the one etched into a nametag working tediously behind a cash register. They hadn't even exchanged five words to each other. Even then, that doesn't seem to correlate with the Roger in the letter.

_Roger…_

Since he lives in these dorms, obviously the man operating that register is far too old to be attending college. If that's true, then there's only one thing left to do: approach the man's door and give 'Roger' his letter, and only then will Jack find his answer.

The thoughts eluded the ginger as soon as his feet took him into the fifth floor hallway, hearing the click of the large doors behind him as he traveled through, passing each numbered door. A small steel plate bolted onto the centre of every wooden door held a three digit number starting from 500…501…502…503. Here it is.

For some reason, however, Jack hesitated. Something felt almost off with this situation; he could almost see a dark and forlorn aura emanating through the door he stood in front of. But why? He couldn't quite press a proper finger down on the nagging feeling. With that, though, would it then be a better idea to simply slip the letter underneath the door, completely avoiding an entire social situation that might end in complete disaster? On the other hand, Jack could knock on the door and finally justify his question. And even if he were to slide the envelope through the door, there is a possibility that Roger might miss it by the time he would need to pass his front door, much like how Jack did.

With a quick decision, Jack shrugged off his concern and tapped his knuckles against the wood: no rhythm or a particular tune, just three simple raps upon the door until it ripped open.

"I thought I told you tah leave me alone!"

_W-What?_

"What part of-!"

_Who?_

The man abruptly stopped, relaxing himself, easing his sharp shoulders. His hand raked through his black hair, squeezing his eyes shut and knitting his dark brows together. His mouth let out a deep sigh as his lids slowly reopened.

"Oh… you."

_Wait huh?_

The black-haired gentleman dug his palm high onto the edge of his door, revealing his shirtless chest, his blazer curtaining around his torso. Seemingly deep in thought, he stood across the doorframe without the decency of covering his undershorts. Jack avoided the sight as best he could.

"Um…" He uttered, gaining the latter's attention.

"Whacha want?" The black-haired man nudged his head up, seemingly gratified by the distraction.

"Do…Do we know each other…by any chance?" Jack enquired monotonously with a stiff expression. There was a slight pause. The half-naked man leaned away from the door, switching his weight to his other leg.

"No."

_Oh._

"Well, then…"

"Do I have to ask again?"

"Is your name Roger?" The redhead finally asked, pointing his chin at the floor, prepared to rummage through his pocket for the final time. He pulled the paper out when he noticed the nod he had been anticipating.

"Your mail was delivered to me by accident," The ginger handed the envelope toward the disheveled character "The dorm number had been mistaken. It's from a girl named Fiona."

"'Fiona'…?"

_Hm? Wait._ Was this the right Roger? If he didn't know the girl, then perhaps some of the information is wrong. Perhaps the address hadn't been mistaken and the only thing wrong would be the one addressed. But that would depend on Fiona's intelligence: if she's smart and observant, she couldn't possibly mistake anything in the letter and that proves that the man standing before Jack is in fact Roger, leaving the simple mistake of a switch in dorm numbers. However, if she's a duffer and couldn't figure out names and numbers, then the man standing before Jack could be complete coincidence and furthermore resulting in him being wrong. But that just doesn't sound quite right…

"Am I mistaken?" Merridew finally asked, suppressing his anxiety if he had any. There was a pause before Roger replied, staring coldly at the letter in the former's hand.

"I don't accept things from people I don't know." After a brief pause of processing thought, the raven-haired man gestured the redhead in, stepping aside from the frame as Jack firmly pinched the envelope between his anxious fingers. Surely he'll find his answer if he takes the offer.

A curtained room illuminated by muffled sunlight shining through the only window of the dorm lit the entire room, bathing what little furniture hugging the walls with quaint afternoon light. With the arrangement of furniture and architectural design, the room did not feel any different from that of Jack and Gwen's room, nor even Daniel's. By the time Roger had offered to let Jack feel "at home", it honestly wasn't that difficult of a task.

"You can take a seat where ever." The raven-haired gent said under his breath, almost too soft to hear. If Jack apperceived or not, he sat himself down anyway on the closest bed he could find and began absorbing the new atmosphere. An element seems somewhat off-putting in here…

"Like my mum would want me to do; I'd like to offer you tea," Roger explained tastelessly while resting against the wall near the closet across from Jack. "But seeing as though the blokes who made this place didn't install kitchens or at least a stove in here, I can't really offer you anything. Sorry."

The only response the raven-haired man got in return was a shake of the head.

"It's fine. Long past tea time, anyway."

A slip of an oddly familiar silence flooded the room. The mood to this one was different, however, creating a complete new sense that made Jack feel almost uncomfortable. The silence continued on, as if the invitation inside this man's dorm was a waste. Perhaps he should just leave…

"Name."

With a jerk, Jack clicked his attention back onto Roger. Name…? Oh.

"What is it?"

"Jack."

"Jack?"

The ginger nodded, growing a little concerned. Have they not met each other on a previous occasion at all? Unless this Roger was really the Roger manning that register, working a false identity and two jobs. _Don't be so childish…_

"Surname. What is it?" Roger quizzed, sliding his fingers between the sides of his undershorts and the skin of his waist - probably out of habit - craning his neck toward the ginger curiously, still holding a careful nonchalant figure.

"Jack Merridew."

Everything stopped dead. Roger only stared at the latter with widened brown eyes. It felt almost like a heart attack. Robust silence created the void. A pine for relief began to race. Someone needed to speak. Why wasn't Roger responding?

In a sudden burst ripping the silence, laughter tickled the air. Almost taking the atmosphere slowly by the tongue, then by a devious mouth, he simply laughed like someone told a funny.

"_The_ Jack Merridew? The one from the island - Merridew?" Spurning began to veneer the man's laughter as he tried to kill the jocular mood he seemingly realized was unfitting. He raked his hand into his raven hair again.

"You're different." Jack callously nodded at the blunt comment, almost aloof until their eyes met.

_'The Island.'_

_Roger. That name...he is that boy, drenched in blood. Gripping a pointed stick, advancing through the foliage. He stalks, taking his victim by the arse. Those squeals of pain staining the air. Everyone cheered._

_The island..._

In bitter flesh, Merridew stood up.

"I-I must go – Business to attend to." With clenched fists and eyes set downcast until complete avoidance took over, the ginger strode toward the exit, wholly displeased by the atmosphere. When his calloused fingertips kissed the knob, his body froze as a hand smashed onto the door.

"Why must you leave so soon, Jack?" Dangerous tones filled his every word, pressing deeply into Jack's skull. "We hardly got a chance to know each other thoroughly."

"You know me." Jack quietly spat at the door, accidentally adding a flare of dread.

"But the delivery boy hasn't finished his job." Irked, Merridew clawed into his pocket and shoved the letter into the oppressor's chest, jostling his dark presence away until the door was free. The ginger scrambled for the knob, turning it open, blood pressing into his temples furiously. In making his exit however, Merridew clouted into the ground face-first in an instant; seeing only the glimpse of a mass of black hair.

"I want to tell you things, Merridew." The words hissed into Jack's ears in pure hostility, forcing the abundance of fear to strike his veins. His arm yanked by an imposing hand behind him, his position locked. Jack chewed his bottom lip, preventing a scream of agony breaking past his throat.

"Why not accompany me a while longer?"

The situation was as hopeless as it was. Jack had to risk an arm if he wanted to escape. When his lip began to seep blood, he finally dropped his head in defeat.

"Good boy."The raven haired man declared with a smile Jack could almost hear. "Our leader has made a wise decision." Roger released his victim, slowly standing up to his feet. On the floor, almost spent of his energy, the sound of the door clicked behind Jack's feet. Shit.

…

Across from Merridew sat the black-haired man, composed and all. His legs long as they reached the floor, bare feet flat against the thin carpet. The ginger sat only the same, both staring at each other heinously, impatiently waiting for someone to say something. The atmosphere grew thick as time passed, no one moved, the sun threatening to set outside the window. Shadows beside furniture turned darker, contrasting with the light skittering across the walls.

No one dared to speak. Or perhaps that is only what it felt like. This was wasting his time. He had to leave. He yearned to leave.

Roger. His head shifted, shooting a sigh into the atmosphere. Only then did Jack finally notice the man's facial hair: dead black and silently rimming his jaw, meeting his sideburns.

"…So," Reluctance etched his words: this subject was just as painful for Roger, too. Jack could only glare at him, hostile, as previous actions would aspire. "You…remember, don't you?"

Merridew simply ached to leave. Gwen was waiting. He never asked for this. He was trapped…

_The monster wriggled for its freedom, its dirtied pink flesh seeping bright red, fresh blood. A silver blade, almost rusted over from previous layers of its brethren, struck through the thin mass of skin, ripping apart the delicate beast. The beast – no, a meal. Laid out, now lifeless as it drained of its precious nectar beneath the grim dominance of a painted hunter, blinded by the over-powering desire to save himself._

Time dragged on. No answer. Why ask such a question when the answer was obvious? Sharp, bitter pain struck the ginger's heart, soul, memory… Too much all at once, he could not take it. He couldn't word this emotion, this recollection.

_A pointed stick at both ends._

No – O God, no! This could not be true. That is in the past: Jack is over it. He was young; too young to even understand his own actions. However, he had been so serious… No…

"Do you, _Jack Merridew_?"

_Quit harassing me, goddammit!_ This was all too sudden. Like an entire bucket of active grenades poured directly atop of him, heinously ripping open his old wounds, taking charge, filling them with the acrimonious taste of _blood, of sand, creepers, paint, Castle Rock—_

"Answer me!"

Roger stood, rancourously glaring down at Jack, haughty from the thick stillness between them. His fists only tightened, choking his own fingers. Jack stared, almost intimidated, crawling into his own fearful void, wanting to escape, only giving glares at brown eyes.

"Don't tell me what to do." It was low, venomous and almost suffering in shivers. This wasn't the time to show cowardice.

"I can't be the only one!" The room stilled, silently quaking in the shadow of Jack's own trepidation. Roger stood, grounded, made of stone. He waited. Ire pulsed through his veins, tempting forbidden animal instincts to unleash.

"I've been through too much to only get this far. You're my connection: you must recall." Jack shook his head, obstinate about his own personal quarreling.

"All those fucking years ago and this is how you repay the matter?"

Jack grew silent, indignation scorching his insides. His blue spheres, now downcast beneath vexed brows. He could only feel the nefarious aura engulfing the other man's piercing stare upon his crown.

"You were a _hunter_, Jack: a fucking hunter. Painted face, proud like the little chorister you were, wielding your weapon - A hunter, a leader," Roger's words advanced in baleful vehemence, only growing louder at each word until malevolence looked him right in the face.

Merridew stood, eyes obscured by pugnacity, his height balancing the differences in mood between both men. Words inflamed his mind, yet he refused the utterance. He had had enough. His final words, "Good day," and he made his leave, unlatching the door, allowing the world of the dormitory to help him. But before he could even make that wish, however, an arm curved over his neck, forcing him backward, nape violently pressing into bone; another arm.

"Who gave you permission to leave?" Too close his words, raking over Jack's ear, forcing a grimace. The grip on his neck tightened, enclosing the space between flesh. By instinct, Jack flailed his hands over the antagonistic arm, desperately trying to liberate himself. Every attempt failed.

"Release me." The ginger pined in growls, clawing over the condemning arm, aching for its dispense.

"You never even gave me a chance, Merridew." His words, dripping in malice, filled Jack's brain, probing his mind, stirring its logic. "How rude..."

Nitrogen only became the true necessity now. This grip was too tight. Everything turned fuzzy, grey. His throat choked, his limbs were losing their dexterity, giving in. He couldn't. Mustn't…

In his withering breath, a muscle of hope, a single leg lifted with utmost strength, craning high, violently crashing with all muster into the dominion's calve, or for what was reached. And until then, everything unraveled as a snake would perish round its victim. Evasive and dull to thought, quick to action, the ginger held his neck as if he could fix his throat into usual comfort, already half-limping toward the exit. Unlatching the golden pole from a silver case folded over in bright cherry oak, Merridew flung the door open, gratitude drowning his heart at an earlier pace as he held it the same as the skin beneath his jaw.

Almost walking the sloppy speed of a lazy chimp, Jack hurried himself toward the exit, wishing his body to be engulfed in safety between the walls of his dorm, underneath the gentle folds of his inviting sheets. The thoughts warmed his soul as his partially impaired body flew him down the spiral steps, rushing him into the third floor hallway, finally jumping into the delicacy called home.

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><p><strong>AN:** Honestly, this chapter killed me. I had to revise it twice. Be happy with the result, please. But that's just me being selfish. OTL

Reviews are love. c:


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm tremendously sorry for those who thought that perhaps I gave up on this story (because I took too long a hiatus of other fics). I assure you, I'm not done yet with this story. I've gone through too much to abandon this fic.  
><strong>

**Oh, and a quick little mamma's boy thing (or rather should I say reader's nancy boy /shotshot/): I appreciate all the thoughtful reviews from my active readers.**

**Anyways, sorry. Continue.**

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><p>In immediate understanding of the situation, Gwenael had his hands already to the aid of Merridew, supporting in every way he could only to get nowhere as the ginger brushed him off, mumbling something. Concerned, the Frenchman followed, hovering hesitant palms over his roommate's slumped shoulders. What exactly happened whilst delivering a letter?<p>

The red head crashed into his bed, having twisted round on his heels, smacking his backside onto the mattress, staring mindlessly at the ceiling like the many accounts of his drunken arse returning home. There was something different about this atmosphere as the man kept his fingers lingering over his neck from the time he'd entered the room. Gwen's words came hesitantly, creeping up his throat and tickling the roof of his mouth.

"…A-Are you…feeling w-well?" In ruffled, empathetic eyes, he watched the man upon the bed (not decaying from an abundant intake of alcohol), hesitant and almost spent of delicate words. Said man remained silent and still as stone.

"Um...Do you mind informing me the events of your departure?" The question seemed far less imprudent than the first – or so it seemed to Gwen in his hopeful mind. Alas though, Merridew lay upon his bed, shrinking into his own empty void, furthering himself away. The Frenchman licked his lips, worried of Jack's health, hoping he truly is alright. But his throat…

"Should…Should I fetch you something to drink? Y-Your…throat… it seems…dehy-?"

"Leave."

…_Uhm._

At least he could talk.

Gwen stood a moment, slightly struck at the word; staring at the man before him, holding his neck with half lidded eyes that stared blindly at the ceiling. Slowly, he made the wise decision to leave to his side of the dorm as if possessed, quietly taking his softened steps toward his bed. He turned on the familiar lamp upon his nightstand, indulging himself in its helpful luminescence as the earth engulfed the sun behind the window. Homework would have to wait. And in concerned glances, Merridew never moved as the room transcended into deeper shades of black. Stilling the atmosphere. The world almost seemed as if it were waiting, too.

What exactly happened to his neck?

_.  
><em>

_…_

.

_Hot. Everything is hot._

_Crackling… Thunder – no. The coughing of fire._

_Almost licking his browned skin. A fidget of fear; under his feet…rocks. _

_Another fidget, his eyes opened. Great, arresting swirls of reds, oranges, and yellows. Inviting, beckoning, violent, malevolent. They clung to the dripping creepers, falling, fazing, melting._

_Crackling, hissing, whirling, blustering: A magnificent inferno. His lips never smiled, though._

_Hiding behind a painted face, his stagnant and dry eyes, burning like the leaves around, watching what carnage he could see. Why would he need to smile at this?_

_Long hair, quaking behind the foliage, dancing, grasping pointed weapons, suspending them into the air; their gaping mouths blending into the screams of the flames. Their stark bodies moving with the tempestuous reds and yellows._

_Between the bending, obscuring trunks, white like coal, standing without emotion, his body completely unrestrained, maimed. His eyes flooding in dark, pure crimson, staring vindictively beneath thick mounds of ash-black hair, flaring and blazing across his forehead and eyebrows._

_This is not right…_

_…"Merridew"…_

_His lungs filled with smoke, beginning to choke. Coughing, wheezing like the fire beside his face. A glimpse of dirtied legs, surrounding him, condemning him. A thick grey bog cataracted over his face. Rocks ran sharply under his knees as he came crashing, grasping his lungs with trembling hands, his eyes squeezing shut in one final effort…_

.

...

.

Merridew's eyes flared open in frantic grey-blue, his mouth, caught without air, gasping desperately. He watched, searched, breathed, hysterical for an answer. A drum beating against his ribs, shaking his entire body. Quaking skin, sweating brows…

What did he have for a drink last night?

Finally opening his awakened blue eyes, the greying blurs of ceiling were morphing, returning to a logical form. Breath smoothing out, he watched, trying to calm his nerves.

"…Jack? You alright?"

_Uh?_

The man blinked, weary and suddenly overcome with confusion. His eyebrows immediately scowled with embarrassment, wiggling his fingers and toes underneath the sheets in concern; searching for that voice. When he heard the familiar sound of steady breathing, Merridew sat up slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose to distract from his flush. _Déjà vu_…

If he had any sort of thoughts, they disappeared as soon as he felt something brush against his skin: a soft, attractive sweep upon the back of his palm, gently pulling it away from his nose. Merridew glanced up, seeking corresponding eyes, finding only familiar concerned silver-yellow ones. The other gent kept his elegant hold round the ginger's palm, resting it upon the sheets over his lap. Concern agitated the man's features.

"Gwen…" Merridew shook his head at himself. "What are you still doing here for?"

Gwen wet his lips nervously before speaking, forcing himself not to stroke his fingers upon rough skin.

"Y-You…you were…You stopped breathing as you slept for a moment." He bit the underside of his lower lip, worrying for his friend. Merridew blinked, absorbing the information, scowling, giving no mind to the hand of a man upon his own.

"I-I sort of…attempted to awaken you, but I felt…unsure." Gwen added discreetly, recollecting the short memory only moments ago. "In hindsight, I suppose you woke yourself up."

The ginger nodded his head slowly, feeling a benign pang thrust within his throat. By instinct, his hands begged to hither to the flesh; he couldn't though, by fingers indulging in a slight rub of skin.

"Do you not need to be in class at this time?" Merridew inquired, staring at Gwen's pale hands numbly.

"A friend's health is a much greater concern." The ginger nodded at this, agreeing to the string of words like a bemused child.

"I take it you plan on delaying your first class just to be with me? Useless." He released their hands as if escaping and brought himself to sit over the edge of the mattress. His train of movement stopped short when a knock rapped upon the door sitting in front of both men who glanced at each other for a brief moment in vague astonishment. When the decision as to who would answer the door set in place, Gwen stood up from his kneel by the bedside and allowed Merridew to approach the door; he knew what the outcome would have been if he stopped Jack.

Opening the door after unlatching it, the flare of anticipation coursed through his veins, he saw a familiar face he hadn't wished to see.

No one spoke. Only eyes of blue and brown, staring at each other.

"What are you doing here?" Jack growled vehemently, voice slightly uneasy. The former avoided a response and only sighed painfully, standing slump-back. Jack watched the others' display, growing territorial. He did not want to speak with this man.

Gwen watched from afar, feeling completely out of place. Who is that at the door? One of Jack's friends? Almost even in height, the ginger stood about an inch taller than the other man clad fully in the school uniform. The abhorrent aura radiating off the figure displayed rather powerfully, repelling Gwen from a friendly hello even when the other man's piercing, focused eyes dithered over to the Frenchman in a quick glance. Though the gesture was small, it remained unsatisfactory, almost disgusting.

Still, no one spoke.

Why the hell was this man here? What was his purpose? Why was he so quiet?

"Would you kindly leave?" The ginger uttered finally, dangerous, about to shut the door on the man's face until the shorter of the two jumped to action, smacking a hand into its centre.

"Let's not do that." The man snapped in a softer tone, keeping his eyes stagnant onto Jack's. "I didn't come here to taste your door."

"Then what did you want, Roger?" he asked, irked and bothered. "I must be off to class soon."

"In those clothes?" Roger pointed out imprudently: the redhead wore only his attire from their last encounter. A little untidy but nonetheless. Perhaps the blazer had gone missing but nothing else too substantial.

"Leave." He deadpanned, not even bothering to recall manners. This man didn't deserve it.

"No; I have to talk with you."

Jack steadied the door, contemplating whether to slam it shut or keep it open, allowing whatever violent notion Roger had in store. Perhaps curiousity did want to have a little listen. But yesterday held no promises…

"Please." Roger stated, rather than pleaded. "It's about the other day."

Unbelievable. Was he attempting to be pleasant or something? That would be interesting. Still unconvinced, Jack only glared and claimed

"I'm not interested." With the slam of the door, a false sense of peace washed through Merridew too quickly as he took a step back. At once, before he remembered Gwen's presence, the door burst open and claws hooked into his collar, tightening over with a threatening pull upward and violent shoving. Merridew caught his feet as the other man advanced toward him, leaving no space of freedom between the two. Jack tore his fingers around the man's wrists, yanking them away. Roger quickly succumbed to the motion as he remembered the third pair of eyes witnessing them. He backed off immediately, drawing his eyes away.

"Leave." Merridew repeated, stern and glaring, automatically grazing his fingers over his neck. The latter remained mute, only staring coldly at the floor, slowly stepping back as if his stomach had been punched. A moment of impasse; of silence; stillness.

"Leave!" The ginger shouted, curling his fingers into tight fists on either side of his hips. His teeth gritted together viciously, demanding the other man's leave in relentless eyes. Roger refused to move. He only glared.

"I apologize," He muttered, as if he regretted the words. He quickly added  
>"–for yesterday, I mean."<p>

Struck into silence, Jack stood, astonished by the uttered words. Roger was noticeably biting his tongue too hard.

_What?__Why?_

What happened to the Roger from yesterday? The violent one; the one willing to kill him if he had to. Jack found himself shaking his head, feeling rather ridiculed.

"Don't lie to me." He spat, glaring at the smooth mop of black hair resting above the latter's heavy dark brows. The other refused to look up, probably apprehensive about the consequences.

"Why would I lie to you, Merridew?" Roger's voice was almost inaudible. Jack opened his mouth, about to request for a repeat of the utterance before the words finally clicked.

"When have you ever been trustworthy?"

Roger paused, thinking over his response. He pressed his thin lips together firmly, searching for some clever comment. His pause was taking too long, though. He allowed his eyes to drift, accidentally hitting dark grey socks. As if forced, he continued his stare until they met with another whose silver-yellow spheres gazed frightfully in return as if Roger was the dragon invading the village. Immediately, the black haired man snapped away, landing upon menacing blue eyes partially hidden between narrow lids. Somehow, it made it worse that the man's stare wasn't directed straight at him, but above him.

"If you're unwilling to answer my inquiry, I would appreciate you departing my dorm." Jack ordered, finally making eye contact, his deep russet brows furrowing into a scowl. Roger couldn't break away. He repudiated that he had ever been entranced.

"Perhaps..." Roger finally began, swallowing hard on nothing, his eyes unsure on where to land. "Perhaps I don't intend to...settle our differences here and now...But…"

Listening in silence, Jack stared, growing curious as to what point Roger was heading for. He waited, giving the man a chance. His face about to ease.

"I don't want to fight you."

Honestly, it didn't come off as that much of a surprise to Jack for some reason. Maybe he had been subconsciously anticipating it somehow. He couldn't quite place a proper finger upon the thought.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Although he felt he already knew the answer, Jack asked it anyway. Perhaps he felt some odd, unknown need for the black haired gent to stay a little while longer. Maybe he just wanted to hear his story.

"I don't want to become enemies. We never were in the past, if you recall."

Even though Jack had been listening, he made a mental note to bleed out that last bit of Roger's saying. He didn't want to recall anything.

"And that's why I came here, following the letter you delivered the other day."

"Is this your queer way of propositioning a truce?" The ginger asked, slightly skeptical, watching the other man before him with vague suspicion.

"You could put it that way, I suppose." Roger half muttered as if he didn't want to admit anything. He just sort of wanted to leave right about now.

A moment of silence; of thought; of consideration. It was painstaking if Roger weren't acting so agitated about his self-quarreling. The two men didn't bother meeting gazes, instead looking elsewhere that didn't involve the very hair of the others' head. Finally, Jack decided to cross his arms beneath his chest.

"Fine." The ginger stated, dry of emotion. "I'll accept."

Roger could feel his heart pound only a spark louder when he heard Jack's response. Honestly, he hadn't expected it. He nodded though; composing himself like it meant nothing.

"Now would you please leave me? I must be getting ready." Jack avoided waving the other away like shooing off a cat – he judged the motion a friendly one. He was simply left to stare until his guest succumbed. Roger didn't do any such thing.

"Would I at least be able to meet with you again?" The black haired man asked, trying to keep it as emotionless as Jack held it. It was somewhat shocking with such a question: Jack never knew Roger to be at least this dependent. _Damn_. He wanted to pinch himself.

"Sure; whatever," Jack answered, a tad bit reluctant, having distracted his eyes away to somewhere far off. It was obvious, his dislike to the situation.

Roger didn't reply. Instead, he inwardly nodded, straightening himself out, preparing himself to follow the other man's orders.

"At the bottom of the spiral stairs when you go to class tomorrow morning. I'll be waiting by the door."

As quickly as he had burst into the room, he disappeared without shutting the door behind him. Jack and Gwen could only hear the light footsteps of the man hastening through the hallway, listening for the slam of the door.

Pleased, Jack Merridew shut the door left open and automatically locked it. Finally, he could relax. He turned his head and spotted Gwen watching with a nervous gaze at Jack, sitting upon his bed that appeared rather disarrayed.

"T-That was...?"

"Roger." Jack answered indifferently before his roommate could even utter his question. He almost sounded disappointed.

"Friends at all?" Even Gwen had doubt strung onto his words.

"I hope not." Jack walked with a sort of lazy step toward his closet, rummaging through the monochromatic items. School clothes all looked the same: Jack was afraid his vision grew so accustomed to the colours that it would soon affect his own casual wardrobe.

"Your class doesn't end until…" Gwen glanced at his silver watch hugging his left wrist. "Until about a half hour. What are you going to do in the meantime?"

"My teacher should expect me to arrive late." Jack replied dully, slipping out a blazer from between the many others appearing practically identical.

"But you'd only be present for twenty or fifteen minutes or even less. And for the time it takes you to finally arrive, probably ten minutes have passed. Even I wouldn't waltz in being so immensely late."

"I'm willing to take the chance. I don't really want to be here, anyway."

Ignoring that that comment could have been insulting to him, Gwen simply kept silent, aware that he couldn't talk Jack out of leaving, although he wanted to. What was he to do for half an hour by himself?

Stuck within being too well-mannered, Gwen simply suited himself to watch Jack as he adjusted his brown blazer over his shoulders, appearing to himself rather smart. Temptations had Gwen wanting to put a stop to his roommate's rummaging about the dorm, searching for his satchel containing his classes.

Before he knew it, the others' presence had disappeared by the sound of the lock clicking into place. He began to contemplate the schedule for the rest of his day.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** More Jack and Roger interaction. I'm actually having a spot of fun writing about them, along with Jack and Gwenael. /hurrhurr/

Anyways, we seem to be moving along with our plot rather swell-like, if I do say so myself.

Reviews are love, as always: they make my day. C:


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you everyone who has reviewed so far. I appreciate every single one. :)**

* * *

><p>Another morning roused in a sweating bed with murderous sheets. The room was flooded in dark grey when Jack Merridew sat up on his mattress, panting heavily, throat dry. Darkness seemingly increased each morning. Winter was threatening its arrival early this year.<p>

The room avoided sound. Even the dust wanted to hide. Merridew slid off the side of his bed, his feet catching him, dragging him toward his closet before he could fully situate himself to his awakening.

While Merridew tugged on a pair of plain dark grey undergarments, his peripherals noticed an empty bed across from his own. The sheets were tidy and smooth….

With blank expression, Merridew arrayed himself in full uniform, completely monochrome in outward appearance. _Where did he place his bag...?_

Carelessly, he searched round the dorm, his astute blue eyes navigating the darkened room. To no avail, his temper began to get the better of him. Surging veins surfaced beneath brown sleeves, items tossed to the side in irritation. Surely he hadn't left it anywhere obscure...

"Oh..."

Immediately Merridew ended his progression and suspiciously glanced over his shoulder, hands still busy searching underneath his desk.

"Good morning, Jack." The man always looked so bright in the morning. His uniform always neat with everything in place while he kept his short maize hair permanently parted to one side, no matter just how stubby it actually was. His smile across full lips always pleasant and lively. Sometimes it irked Jack to see such an eccentric image every day. He grunted a greeting and turned back to his search.

"Are you looking for something?" His roommate asked slowly, genuinely curious as if he was blind to the obvious. He never did sound tired.

"What does it look like to you?" Jack grumbled sarcastically, seeing that his bag was truly missing, standing up on his black dress shoes, eyes still hawking.

"Well...were you at all looking for..." The latter trailed off. Jack curiously forced himself to face Gwen who brought forth a deep brown satchel familiarly decorated in its usual silver buckles and leather flaps "...this?"

Without a word, Merridew approached the Frenchman, lethargy crusting at the corners of his eyes which kept only to the item of interest. He avoided admitting anything as he grabbed for the bag as if it were a kitten.

"Aren't you meeting with Roger today?"

As he mused through his bag to check if everything was present, Jack's heart panged sour, dread drowning his veins. To approach the situation with that man alone would be repugnant. He automatically choked the seams of his satchel.

"Unfortunately." The redhead stated dully, spying Gwen's black leather shoes, not meaning to look at them so coldly.

"You don't have to go..." Gwen reasoned, crossing his arms under his chest casually. He was right but there was something keeping Jack from agreeing.

"No..." Merridew stated decisively, eyes kept downcast as if meeting gazes would cause regret. "I said I'd be there."

Gwen's stare tickled his skin, worrying, as if he broke moral code. Or was that just his disappointment in himself?

"You must take in consideration that you might miss out on your morning class again, Jack." Gwen explained, unease filling his voice. "Won't your teacher grow concerned? It is quite unlike you to obviate responsibility."

"Why must it matter to you?" Jack enquired distastefully, finally meeting with silver-yellow eyes.

"You know I can't stop you," The blonde huffed without blinking "But the least I can provide you with is my concern."

Jack nodded soundlessly, swinging his bag over his shoulder casually. Staring once again at the floor, about ready to make his leave

"Just don't lose yourself." Gwen picked up the redhead's stiffened jaw and pecked the man's cheeks, wordlessly wishing him luck, watching Jack bite back his lip and deliver himself toward the exit. Without a wave farewell, the room fell once again into silence.

...

Somehow, Merridew felt almost gratified to discover the spiral staircase deserted. Not even Roger. Perhaps he forgot. Or, on a more unwilling thought, perhaps the man was running late. Merridew kept his ears perked. Any footsteps? Nothing. Should he wait or abandon the idea and the encounter all together? But to do that would mean to betray his word to Gwen, even if the aborigine of the notion hung true to Roger.

He should just hurry off to class. He'll be late if he waits too long and at that point, what would that prove in the end? His teacher will look at Merridew and think he turns up late for lessons on a bloody whim. But it's not as if skipping with Roger will make any difference. He'll just wait five minutes...

Impatience got the better of Merridew. His toe tapped erratically at the ground as if nagging it to send a message in Morse code. His arms strung tightly across his chest with great intolerance. Even his finger struck at his bicep, digging a stubby nail into the fabric at every injection. And every now and again Merridew would systematically check his pocket-watch within his blazer. _A gentleman's tradition_, the gruff old-man voice of his father rang through his head, as displeasing as the memory served.

One final sigh rolled off his tongue. Time was spent. He waited long enough.

In irritable hands, he swung the door open, immediately meeting with the nip of the final days of autumn. Who would have thought winter decided to arrive unexpectedly early? Merridew shrugged off the thought, adjusting the weight of his satchel bag. The cool of the morning met his face, sending a small shiver down his spine. First step outside, he hesitated and peered down: a dark pile of discoloured sodden leaves caught his eyes. _How did that get—_

He slipped, watching the sky, the door frame, everything blur past his vision. A sting pierced his shoulders, finally sensing the hook of sharp claws. Pulling, not letting him fall. He winced, almost screaming, reaching for his predator. Bones. Merridew forced himself downward, releasing the agony. He spun round, finding the face he dreaded most. His nostrils flared.

"You came."

_Roger_.

He looked neater than usual, like his mother snuck into his dorm to spruce up her son. Probably kept her locked in his roommate's closet for safe-keeping, Jack mused as he studied the character before him. He trimmed his hair a bit, too.

"What is it you wanted and can we make this quick at all?" Merridew delved straight into business, not wanting to stress his schedule into deeper poverty.

Instead of replying, Roger skirted past the redhead in silence, his dress shoes tacking away at the cement floor, walking up to the open frame where the heat (if there was any to begin with) escaped into unforgiving frost. Watching the man leave, Merridew decided it safe to follow the unspoken instruction. Stepping over the unusual heap of dead leaves, Jack shut the door behind him, wondering dimly to himself why the university had been ill to submit the winter uniforms to every student on campus. Albeit the season hasn't truly reached winter yet...

"Mind if I ask where we're heading?" Merridew quizzed bitterly by accident, catching up to Roger whose hands jammed into his front pockets nonchalantly. _Nonchalant indeed_. The man didn't answer, keeping his eyes forward, pointing them toward the main campus building.

"Gettin' a bit chillier each day now," Roger mused insipidly, not even bothering for a response. What did he care about the weather, anyway? Jack accepted the awkward treatment and walked alongside the other, taking no mind to his reddening fingers and nose. He'd been through worse.

They were closing in on the school with plenty of time to spare – and yet Jack couldn't help feel he was wasting his time. This wasn't an escort mission to see to neither Roger's classes nor his own. Jack tetchily pointed his reddened nose toward the black haired gent who was observing his breath wade past his dead-white cheeks as he walked.

"Tell me." Merridew demanded pointedly, eyebrows heavy, horizontal and serious. No response.

"Tell you what?" The latter riposted with a cheeky smile he cleverly kept hidden. This wasn't some kind of game.

"The other day you were so focused on wanting to see me again," the redhead glanced at the school. Close. He sighed, watching his breath. "I thought perhaps you'd grown ill."

Roger grunted an agreement, as if he just remembered something and didn't fancy the thought. Merridew keeping walking, his hands eagerly searching for warmth. This was ridiculous. His pockets would have to do. He glanced over his shoulder, finally accepting that Roger halted. The man wore too serious of countenance.

"I don't want to see our –" Roger bit back the word, reluctant on its meaning "...alliance – fill with such distrust, Merridew."

The latter shifted his weight to one leg in dying patience, his splintering look glazed over Roger.

"I want to form more trust between us; a thicker bond like Ralph Fults and Raymond Hamilton or something..." The black haired man trailed off mumbling the obscure reference.

"And how are you to propose that?"

"I want you to meet some of my friends."

Silence.

How stupid did he think Jack was?

"What the bloody hell do you mean?" He inquired, loosely composed, holding back an irksome mood.

"They attend the neighbouring public school not too far from here," Roger explained, ignoring the query. "If you know my people, you'll know me."

"And is that the soul reason why you wanted to see me again – To gain my trust?" Jack quizzed, patience thinning into weak strings, tensing his arms. Roger blatantly evaded response; instead holding the other's gaze intensely, as if reading each other's eyes told the truth. Seeing this, Jack accepted the unyielding behaviour, a sigh rolling out of his throat in recognition.

"Your friends, huh...?" Jack calculated the experience, trying to see the outcome only to see a blank screen within his mind. He pulled back his lips and bit them in disappointment.

"Fag?"

Jack's eyes clicked over the cigarette between Roger's fore and middle fingers. The item stood erect toward the greying sky, presented at the redhead's chest. His hands hesitated as if apprehending any lingering poison stuck amid the carefully minced leaves.

"I'll reek of smoke when I arrive into first lesson." Jack protested weakly, snatching the stick in despite. He slid its bitter end between his dry lips lazily and waited for Roger to finish lighting his. His teacher should expect their redheaded student to show up late anyway...

A yellow flame reached his face and coloured the tip of his cigarette red until Jack breathed in, letting the toxicity flood his insides. That usual crave never felt so dim before.

"Where do you plan on meeting again?" The ginger enquired tastelessly, drawing the stick of tainted white away from his face. A foul cloud of thinning grey caught onto the restless wind and exposed Roger whose face seemed unmoved and flinty.

"Eh...Probably round the east entrance of the school," He explained as if the thought never occurred to him before, effortlessly excreting smoke from between his lips, his eyes lining suspiciously over the buildings ahead. "I'll show you my mates over there...by their college."

"I must turn here," Merridew reported, acknowledging a small flight of ten steps behind an open black gate. He dropped his half burned cigarette beneath his foot and stamped it dead. "Do you have anything more to inform me about before I leave you?"

The two of them stilled, the black haired man stifled of a response, pouting out his bottom lip in funny contemplation. Nothing. And he simply walked off, not even bothering to wave, his fag still snug in his mouth. He didn't care. Merridew repeated the motion with his hands stuck in his front pockets and a face made of stone.

...

The day swept along like wild fire. Homework piled, mocking Merridew, waiting for him to put his undivided attention onto it like some slapper at a useless party. Albeit her futility was a necessary evil...

Evil. Merridew chuckled dryly at the thought. His smile wiped away, stomach churned bitterly. Their meetings seem so frequent now, every encounter never eased and only filled rightfully with more dread. A heavy sigh escaped him, seeing the smoke of his breath evading his lips. It was just breath...

He never usually went this way, Jack recalled as his shoes kissed the steps of pearl white, escorting him down toward another black gate fixed with its share of unidentifiable ornaments of what looked to be birds or winged lions. Ignoring the rows of assorted flowers with missing petals on either side of the gateway, Jack shepherded himself through, adjusting his bag, his heart trying to yield into pleasant thoughts.

His heart plummeted. He despised his own feet as they shoved him closer to that familiar figure whose black hair stained into the background, flowing like some caged raven in desperate need to escape.

"Merridew."

The name felt rotten to his ears while others streamed past his shoulders through the expansive white walkway. There was a predator in those brown eyes as they stared welcoming and hollow. Russet brows bridged over Merridew's blue eyes as he stepped closer, following shoes that matched his own, tacking away like a clock.

"You're the same grade as me, are you not?" The man asked bemusedly, avid to his mental map, eyes focused at the maze of quaint buildings ahead. Jack didn't bother pointing his incredulous gaze at the other's profile.

"Why?" He asked, almost sneering.

"You're about the same age, right? Eighteen?"

Merridew nodded suspiciously, knowing his notion was caught by peripherals.

"How far off is this place?" The ginger inquired as the two of them entered the main car park of the university. Cars flooded the area, a few draining out into the veins of the streets.

"Settle down, Merridew," Roger assured under a teasing tongue, half smiling, scarcely reaching the border of silliness. "We've hardly made it off campus, yet you're so needlessly antsy. Not like there are sweets at the end of this ride, if that's what you were expecting."

Silence quickly expanded between the two men as the margin of the school passed underneath their feet, each step murdering Merridew with undesirable knots coating his stomach. Was this the better choice? _You don't have to go..._

_A leader never breaks his promise._

_...But a savage is boundless._

Merridew scowled at himself, immediately guiding his ruffled gaze at Roger whose nose and index finger seemed to be having an affair rather than concern for anyone else. Merridew hid his embarrassment if he had any and continued to scan the passing area. At least he knew these streets and these shops, though he has never been aware of a public school nearby. Granted, however, his sober arse hasn't explored much of what was left of this town. His boyhood never experienced this area. No one had explored here within the years of his youth.

Silence always seemed like a horrid hobby of Merridew's. Even Roger had the same knack. Perhaps they did have something in common... It was eating him alive, anyway. And upon turning a corner after crossing over a busied street, Merridew felt forced to speak up.

"Who are your friends?" He asked as they passed a white building labelled 'PUB'. Roger didn't bother looking at him.

"College students." He replied laxly, not taking his observing eyes off their surroundings.

"Personally, I meant."

"They're people: you'll get to know them when you meet them. Tisn't that far now."

Sceptical, Merridew kept his feet coursing, almost forced; down increasingly unfamiliar roads. Would he be saving himself if he decided to turn back now, or would he be nourishing his curiousity if he continued? Merridew was perhaps a little too loyal to repudiate this instance of request. An order was an order...

Right as the redhead glanced over to Roger, about ready to ask where on bloody Earth they were, the raven-headed man had his attention fixed elsewhere, a palm thrusting into the cold air – waving, maybe - a minuscule, half-hearted smile covered his thin lips. Following his stare, Merridew glanced over across from him. Behind a tall white prestigious brick wall stood a school in the guise of the Church of England, precisely sculpted spires dotting along every edge of roof like icing upon an expensive cake. The façade painted in plain pale auburn, every corner, every inch tuned finely to a masterpiece that could make any architect proud.

A soft, adjuring wind brought his attention to three figures, all varying in height. The shortest one, last to wave in greeting, leaned against a corner, the dead end of the border that held the school; he leaned his rump against it, rocked, and rotated like an oblivious child waiting impatiently for something, growing increasingly bored. The lad beside him, considerably taller, wore a deep, indifferent frown, nudging the other chap aside, saying something inaudible until their faces met Merridew's. They didn't respond to his presence.

"Oi," The tallest and thickest man out of the three approached both Roger and Merridew, smiling away with horrendously crooked teeth behind awkward lips. Between them was a cigarette. "Roger: 'oo's thas?"

His grey eyes scanned over Merridew as if judging his competence. His fat fingers stole his smouldering stick and held it, blowing smoke happily into the lad's face.

"This's Merridew. He's uh...He goes to the same uni as me." Roger explained, patting Merridew's shoulder, a folly smile lifting his face. His touch almost seemed hesitant.

"'Merridew'?" The other inquired sceptically. "Whu's 'is first name? A man's got tah have a first name, don't 'e?"

"Jack." The redhead blurted out. He failed to notice how quick he was to draw out his response, ignoring Roger's indifferent nod. _This man's height, strength, critical eyes..._

"Jack Merridew," The man chuckled heartedly, taking a drag from his cigarette. "You don't seem quite merry, yah?"

"Oh shut it, you pillock," Over his broad shoulder, the lanky bloke from the wall shoved the other by the shoulder, pointing his jagged nose at Jack with a large sneering grin underneath. "Noyce tah meecha, Mary: the name's Basil. Basil Ashworth."

Before Jack could reply, the final stubby lad from the wall dashed over, eager to make his display.

"Les' not forget Basil's brother, yah?" His voice was pitched unusually high for someone of his age. He smiled childishly, a tooth noticeably missing. "I'm Hector. We're half a year apart, duncha know?"

"Fuckin' 'ell, lad; must yah tell everyone everyfin?" Basil moaned, pushing at Hector's face with a palm. The chap remained speaking into it inaudibly with little cracks of information, grinning away nonetheless. Basil turned to his Merridew, cocking an eyebrow, unsmiling. "He's men'al, I swear."

"_Christ_, jus' let meh speak, woncha?" The pugnacious heavy man returned, tapping Basil's cheek with his fist, eyeing Merridew as he went, his mouth agape, about to speak

"This bastard is Leo," Roger cut in, patience thinning "No one calls him by his real name, though. He hates it. So avoid it by all means."

Merridew nodded with mock understanding, taking in all their faces and names as if he would remember.

"Oi, you fuck. Don't interrupt me while I'm—"

"I was thinking we'd go out to the nearest pub," Roger proposed, a mocking grin glancing Leo's way. The man's eyes instantly flared. The raven-haired gent ignored it "Release a bit of tension, yah? I'm meeting someone over there as well."

"Who's it this time, you tosser?"

When Roger didn't reply immediately, silence flooded the atmosphere.

"You'll see."

Simple as that and the men all followed each other down the road as if nothing could harm them. Acceptance couldn't quite make it, but the pub would ease something, Jack thought hopefully.


End file.
